


A New Beginning

by Nordic_Breeze



Series: The Outlaw and the Girl Next Door [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Intoxication, Loss of Parent(s), Mutual Pining, Protective Arthur, Reader-Insert, Sexual Tension, Smut, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:19:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19412554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nordic_Breeze/pseuds/Nordic_Breeze
Summary: Determined to hunt down your father’s murderer and bring him to justice you refuse to be deterred when your venture takes you to the dangerous backwoods of Roanoke Ridge, and you run into the last man you had ever wanted to see again. Or maybe deep, deep down you had. A turbulent and treacherous journey awaits you where battles will be fought not only against man and nature, but within your heart as well as the long but unescapable road towards forgiveness commence.





	1. I Have To Do This

**Author's Note:**

> A direct sequel to Bath Time With Arthur: _You're working as a deluxe bath girl and find youself unusually attracted to your latest client,_ and Bath Time With Arthur: The Sequel - ingenious title, I know ^^' _A few weeks has passed by when Arthur Morgan returns to the hostel where you work as a deluxe bath girl, and once again you find youself drawn to this mysterious stranger with the mesmerizing eyes. However, will the massive firearms he's carrying frighten you or enthrall you?_
> 
> It ended on a not very good note for you and Arthur so here is the final part of this series, and a fix-it for both part two and for Red Dead 2 in general. Taking place a few months after Part Two as well as the main events of Red Dead 2, which transpired much the same as in the canon excpet that Arthur did not get TB. I've taken certain liberties when it comes to bounty missions etc. Will add tags as I write. Rating will probably be upped to explicit at some point.
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments, kudos, bookmarks, everything for Part 1 and 2. I was blown away by the response, and I really hope Part 3 lives up to that somewhat.

A foreboding sensation settled at the pit of your stomach the moment you found yourself standing in the small garden outside your cousin’s home in Saint Denis on the day of your father’s scheduled arrival, an unopened telegram in your hand. Today is the day you were to see him again for the first time since you left your birth home last year to pursue a lifelong dream of studying at St. Denis University. But instead of the long-awaited reunion with your pa, you are holding a piece of paper, with WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM printed in bold letters marked _emergency delivery_ – never a good sign.

Perhaps the presentiment had started even earlier, when you first opened your eyes this morning and the sweet, delightful butterflies of anticipation accompanying you to bed last night had been replaced by this strange, ominous feel of something being amiss. You had brushed it off, or tried to, imputing it on a night of restless sleep, a forgotten nightmare still lingering in the subconscious of your mind. Oh, how wrong you were. And how right had been your first intuition.

With trembling fingers you tear open the sealed, yellowish paper and read the few printed words. It has today’s date, Friday April 6, 1900.

As you read, each word fills you first with disbelief, then denial which is promptly replaced by anger, finally settling on anguish and grief. You read and reread, as if you had misunderstood the meaning at first perusal, or even the second, or if you just read it enough times the message will somehow change. Eventually the dreadful truth sinks in. Your knees go weak and you sink to the ground, whimpering and sobbing with your head buried in your palms. You cry, quietly at first, then louder and louder until you are practically screaming at the top of your lungs and have to be escorted inside.

~*~

The trip back home with your extended family you all but barely remember. Your uncle meets you at Wallace Station, his back hunched from being the bearer of grief and bad news. You remember hugs. Sniffles and sobs and mournful eyes. The wagging of a stagecoach and finally, the smell of home. You stand in front of the dining table where you had bid your father a hasty goodbye all these months ago. Your father. Dead. _Gone._ Taken from you, just like that. You are now an orphan. Parentless.

People are gathering around you and a hand escorts you to the couch. Your father’s couch. Now your uncle’s couch? It is not until now that you realize you have been standing in the dining room all alone while the others stepped outside to allow for a moment of reflection in solitude.

You sit in the middle with your late mother’s niece Millie to your left and her husband Thomas to the right as your uncle details the events leading up to your father’s death as relayed by his murderer. On his way to Wallace Station to board the night train to Saint Denis, he’d been held up at gun point. He blatantly refused to give up the money needed for the train ticket, as admirable, reckless or foolish it might be, depending on who you ask. He also refused to let go of his travel bag containing a gift to you. He had begged, _pleaded_ the gunman to leave him be so he could see his daughter again. For that he had been shot, robbed and left to bleed out in the middle of the road where a traveler on his way to Cumberland Falls had found his body in the early morning hours. From what he could tell, your father had already been dead for hours. The bastard had been caught by bounty hunters for other crimes when fleeing towards Valentine. Your father’s travel bag with its belongings however, is still missing and the perpetrator refuses to say anything on the matter.

The voices around you grow distant and incomprehensible as you silently recite your father’s latest letter to yourself. It is one you had read so many times you know it by heart. Sentence after sentence detailing his excitement for the upcoming journey to Saint Denis and to be reunited with you, his angel. Then, in a cruel form of self-torment beyond your control your mind conjures an image of your father splayed out in the middle of a dusty road, encircled by a growing pool of his own blood. Your body goes cold as you picture him alone and scared, knowing he would never see his angel again as the kindness in his eyes fades away, replaced by cold, unfeeling death.

You know it’s not your fault. You cannot be blamed for the actions of a heartless gunman no more than you can control the weather. Yet you can’t stop the searing guilt burning in your chest, corrosive and destructive, like vinegar on paper. He had died on his way to see _you_. Shot to death because he didn’t want to give up money he needed to come and see _you_ , or his gift to _you_. Your father’s last moment plays in your head over and over, magnified to a thousand by an overzealous imagination. You see him before you, eyes wide with fear as he begs his murderer to leave him be with that tremble in his voice he always gets when scared or agitated. You can imagine it all too well because this is your last memory of him. On the day you had left for Saint Denis someone, whom you had tried long and hard to forget, had beaten him half senseless for owing him, or whomever had sent him, money. A debt he had put himself in to fulfill your childhood dream. Even though you had left him money, he thought it best to give you time and space to settle down and focus on your studies. You had exchanged letters regularly but it wasn’t until now, the week before Easter, that he was to finally come and see you. The plan had been to spend the spring in Saint Denis with you whilst his younger brother Bryan looked after the homestead. There is so much you had wanted to show him. Parks, extravagant buildings, exhibitions, the Vaudeville theater and moving pictures shows… With aching heart, you can only think of what could have been, and how different everything will be from now.

Sheriff Farley comes over the next day. Or at least you think it’s the next day. You learn that the man who had robbed and murdered your father, one Clive Nevans with unknown affiliations, is currently holed up at the sheriff’s office in Valentine awaiting transport to Strawberry where he will be sentenced as the offence took place in West Elizabeth.

After that, you catch only fractions of the conversation. _Cold sonofabitch was grinning the whole time… Regrets nothing… Like he was bragging… Bastard’s gonna swing…_

You feel a pair of hands on your shoulders and your cousin’s melodious voice reach your ears. “Please, Thomas. She doesn’t need to hear this.” You allow her to escort you to your room.

The rest of the day goes by, followed by night and then another day, blending into one another. You are unsure of how many. You remember bits and pieces of words, events and conversations. Someone talks to you about what the law says about movables, livestock and property and what women can and cannot inherit, but you don’t remember much afterwards. You remember however, crying over a diamond-shaped structure of wood with the smell of lilacs in the air, and a beautiful and heartfelt eulogy you can but barely recall afterwards. Your father’s coffin being lowered into the ground, followed by a thousand handshakes and condolences whose faces you immediately forget.

Sheriff Farley comes by unexpected after the service, bringing devastating news. Nevans has escaped prison! Four words that hit you like a horse’s hoof to the stomach. Helped by two accomplishes, he ran from his cell in Valentine early this morning whereupon the trio fled east according to reliable eyewitnesses. A formidable manhunt is transpiring this very moment, that is all he knows for now. They might know more at the sheriff’s office in Valentine. When your uncle says he’ll leave first thing in the morning you insist on going with him, not backing down until he agrees.

In Valentine sheriff Malloy regrettably informs that there is nothing he can do as Mr. Nevans is believed hiding in the eastmost side of New Hanover, a place called Roanoke Ridge. A treacherous, forested mountain area reigned by savages and out of his jurisdiction. As your uncle half discuss half argue with the sheriff, your gaze lands at Clive Nevans bounty poster, an uglier mug you have never seen in your life. You let out a bitter snort at the $50 bounty. Ten dollars for every life he’s taken. That they know of. One human life, valued to ten measly dollars. A sour taste grows in your mouth. The men still preoccupied with discussing, you snatch the poster and tug it inside your clothes.

You are given money. A decent sum of money. Your heritance you are told. More than what you are entitled to as an unmarried woman, but it’s what _he_ would’ve wanted. The next day, you are on your way back to Saint Denis with Thomas and Millie. Best way to move on is to get back to the daily routine you are told. Maybe that is true. However, you can’t bring yourself to agree. Or care.

Like vinegar corrupts paper, grief and guilt corrupt your heart and soul. Burning deep within, it haunts your every thought every second of the day until you are consumed by blind, burning hatred for the man that took your father’s life. Finding him, and bringing him to justice, is all you can think of.

Back in your room in Saint Denis, you unpack your travel bag only to repack it late in the evening, but only what you deem absolutely necessary. You leave a note for Thomas and Millie, thanking them heartily for everything and apologizing for leaving in the midst of the night. You hate to leave them worried, but you _have_ to do this for your own peace of mind.

~*~

“No nonono, NOO!”

What had once been a sheriff’s office is now a burnt down building inhabited by random squatters too drunk to tell you anything of use. A torn poster, barely eligible after exposure to the elements for who knows how long has been nailed to the charred building. You can barely make out _…’-herif’…, …’-nquiri-’… …Ann-sbu-._

Okay, so your first - and for all intents and purposes only bounty mission has hit a bulk in the road. Nothing you can’t handle. The van Horn train station is no longer in operation and the stagecoach had just left. However, didn't you see a sign pointing to a nearby stable earlier?

~*~

“I’m real sorry ma’am, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Sheriff Jones of Annesburg dismisses you with a surprising degree of solemn earnest after you have relayed your purpose for the visit. He draws a lungful of breath, allowing for the rejection to settle before continuing. Placing both elbows on his desk and interlacing all ten fingers he locks eyes with yours, making sure he has your full attention.

“Roanoke Ridge is a vast and dangerous place, and I ain’t just talking ‘bout bears. Ever since the van Horn inferno last year, this has been the only sheriff’s office for miles. I’m heavily understaffed as it is, and I neither can nor will order the few men I have at my disposal to go huntin’ some low-life hidin’ out in Murfree land. Especially when what he’s wanted for happened out of my jurisdiction.”

He leans back in his chair, a matter-of-fact conduct in his tone and to his face and posture denote an _end-of-discussion_ to this issue in which he will not be persuaded. You manage to keep your composure, but not without an internal fight threatening to tear you apart at any moment.

“I’ve come all this way, Mister,” you plea, your voice wobblier than you would’ve liked but you are, with what you are about to say, incapable of hiding the grief in your voice. “I lost my momma at a young age, and I have no brothers or sisters. My pa was the only-”

You stop mid-sentence to force down a sob. Your hand clutches over your mouth. You take a deep, uneven breath. Through your exhale, you hear a heaved sigh.

“Where’d say you came from again, Miss?”

“Saint Denis.” You swipe the area under your eyes with your knuckles. “Before that, Strawberry.”

“Well I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing. Best advice I can give you is to go back home.” 

The sheriff picks up the wanted poster on his desk. Thumb to lip, he traces the features on the wanted man’s face, burning them to memory. Deep-set, beady eyes combined with bloated, rotund cheeks, like that of rodents hoarding food in preparation for winter, with a lightning bolt of a scar across his left cheek he is easily recognizable, even from a sketch. Jones puts down the yellowish paper and returns his attention to you.

“This Nevans fella ever comes near here, he won’t even have time to blink before he sees the inside of a cell, I guarantee you that. But more likely, he’ll end up dead in a week or two, by the hands of a Brood, a bear or a cougar, or maybe even the mountain itself.”

It’s clear from his tone that the sheriff has made up his mind. But you refuse to give up. If not to catch the men and women breaking the laws of this land, then what are lawmen even for?

“My father’s murderer is roaming around somewhere out there, a free man” you needlessly remind. “And you say there is nothing you can do! I will not be able to rest until I know he will answer for what he did. For what he took away from me, my family. For what he may- will do to others.”

“Bad men doing horrible things to innocent people is nothing new, Miss,” Jones responds in a flat, deflated tone conveying compassion though not without a slight trace of warning. “You catch one, and ten more appear before the end of the week.”

“If this is an attempt to dissuade me, I can assure you that your words have quite the opposite effect.” You cross your arms over your chest. Jones leans back in his chair, letting out a languid sigh.

“Okay, fine. I will hunt him down myself then.”

“Miss, that would be suicide. Pardon my supposition, but you don’t seem like a lady who is familiar with the wild, and them Murfree Broods out there are not to be messed with, ya understand!”

“I have to do this.”

“And this is what your father would’ve wanted for you?”

This time, you can’t hold back the tears. You squeeze your eyelids shut, yet you feel your cheeks getting most. If you had been able to speak, you would have said that you are doing this for _you_ , not him. It takes several minutes before you are composed enough to talk again. You open your eyes to a concerned frown, with a hint of parental scold.

“I _ahem_ , can’t with good conscience endorse you, Miss. But I… know someone who might be willing to help. A bounty hunter, or claims to be one although I suspect that is not all he is. Real tough and mean-looking this fellar, yet quick and deadly, like a hawk. He’s brought in some hard ones. Just last week he caught one that, up until then, was considered a near impossible catch after only a few hours. ‘Big Josh’ Brown, you heard of him?”

You’ve been listening attentively in silence. It takes you a few seconds to realize he asked you a question, and judging by his pause he did not mean it rhetorical. You shake your head.

“Used to be a bounty hunter himself, but ended up getting too trigger happy. Turned into what he’d been chasing all them years. I guess that’s what they call irony. Anyway, having been a bounty hunter himself he knew exactly how to avoid the ones going after _his_ bounty. Had nearly half the man hunters in the area looking for him when this feller I told you ‘bout strolls in, grabs Big Josh’s poster and asks me where he was last seen. I said, _‘Mister, you ain’t got much of a chance with this one, they either search for days on end before giving up, or they end up dead’_. Feller says s’mthing charming like, _‘If I wanted advice, I’d ask for it’_ , walks out the door without another word and I think nothing more of it until he returns not even four hours later, Big Josh over his shoulder like he was a sack of wheat, hollerin' about how he _shoulda gone out with a bullet to the heart, not to the knee and tied up like a filthy hog_.”

“How did he find him?”

“Didn’t ask, didn’t care. But if anyone can track down and capture this Nevans feller, it’s him.” Upon seeing your expression, he raises his palms and his tone instantly shifts from a captivating narrative to defensive. “Now, I can’t guarantee anything. This man works for no one but himself, he’s made that much clear. Though he’s always looking for ways to earn some extra cash. For a sizeable enough reward, I’ll reckon he’ll be inclined to offer his services.” He returns the bounty poster to you at the same time as he delivers the last sentence. By instinct, you accept the curled-up paper.

“Where can I find him?”

“I don’t have a name for you, but he’s actually huntin' bounty right now. He should be back in a few hours - or days.”

As unpleasant as is the thought of making such a deal, or any deal, with a complete stranger whom, from what sheriff Jones has told, is on the unfortunate end of the shady versus trustworthy scale, you reckon you don’t have much of a choice lest all this will have been in vain. After three seconds of consideration, you conclude that you ought to at least talk to him.

“Thank you, Sir. Is there a place in this town where I can rent a room?”

“Gunsmith, ‘cross the street from here.”

Returning to the sheriff’s office after a quick visit to the gunsmith, you slump down on a bench by the door. The leather holster holding your recently acquired six-shooter slams against the wall as you pull out pen and paper from your bag. You have but a vague idea on how to use firearms, so you put your trust in the supposition that the mere threat of a loaded revolver will suffice in dissuading anyone with possible malicious intent should you ever come in a situation in which drawing a gun would be deemed necessary. And when it comes to hostile animals, well you reckon the horse you bought at the stable near van Horn should suffice as decent protection.

You write a letter to your uncle and to your cousin Millie to let them know you are doing fine, and to the University notifying your unscheduled absence. The letters written and carefully tucked into respective envelopes with the correct address – you’ve checked trice, you bag the letters and pick up a book. A few pages in, your attention drifts from the wall of text on dirt-white pages to the bed in the corner opposite of where you are sitting. Oh, how you long for a full night of blissful sleep where you don’t wake up in tears after having been reunited with your father in your dream alive and well, only to wake up and relieve the grief. The sheriff takes note of the fatigue in your eyes, and informs that he’ll be happy to give this bounty hunter a word when he returns, upon which you reply that thanks but you would rather meet him here. The sheriff shrugs, and makes sure you know that he will resign to his bed by eleven. Duly noted.

The front door bursting open stirs you from the slumber you did not know you had entered. As is common after a sudden rouse, you stretch, yawn and rub your eyes all at once. Through rapid blinks, you see the silhouette of a gigantic figure with a hideously deformed backside, its footsteps weighty enough to make the entire floor quiver.

“Where you want him?”

“In the cell back there, thanks,” Jones responds without even looking up from his papers.

It takes your sleep-deprived mind a few seconds to realize that this is in fact not the Hunchback of Norte Damme, but the mysterious bounty hunter you’ve been waiting for returning with his prize slung lifeless over his shoulder. The distinct cling of metal to metal you presume is the unlocking of a cell. You rise to the sight of this mysterious hunter of man hovering over his prey, an internal monologue running through your head in preparation of forwarding your job offer, or mission or whatever the correct terminology is, though you’ll most likely just end up winging it anyways.

“Took you a while. He gave you trouble?”

The bounty hunter turns to face the lawman now standing next to the open cell. He is a good half a head taller than the sheriff, whom is by no means a short man. A tingle of recognition stirs inside you, an uncomfortable one at that. Why is the manhunter’s posture making your heart beat so fast?

“Had me chasin’ him through half the state.” There is a hint of strain to his voice when he says the last word as he is hovering over the comatose captive severing the rope tying his hands together.

 _That voice._ No, it can’t be.

“Got him cornered at a headland down by the river. Fool tried’a escape me by swimming.”

You refuse to acknowledge the prickling under your skin caused by numerous, tiny hairs on your body going erect. This is just a coincidence, you tell yourself. It _has_ to be. Just two very different people sounding an awful lot alike, that is all. But when sheriff Jones starts introducing you, the mortifying dread flaring through your chest makes it impossible to deny what your heart already knows. You open your mouth to stop him but not a word comes out. You can do nothing but stand idle by like the gaping chump that you are as the sheriff relays the purpose of your visit.

“ _…if you’re interested in some extra cash then this young lady here has a job that might be of interest…, lost her pa in a robbery last week…_ It was last week, right Miss?”

The bounty hunter finally turns to look at you, revealing a unique blend of green and blue hitherto concealed by the wide brim of a well-worn, tattered black leather hat.

You would have recognized those eyes anywhere.


	2. Stone Cold

“She really wants to talk to you. Been sitting here waitin’ for you all evening. Miss, are you all right?”

Although Jones has been speaking kindly in your favor you can hardly rejoice. You must look like an idiot here you stand, jaw gaping and round-eyed like it’s bigfoot himself standing in front of you. Admittedly, Arthur looks about as dumbstruck as you feel, making you wonder if he too has difficulty following the sheriff’s monologue. From the _what-the-hell_ look on his face, you guess not.

“I-I’m good, thank you Sir,” you stutter, whisking out the door in a haste clearly indicating you are anything but.

It must’ve been a while since sunset. The sky is dark and the air noticeably colder than when you went to see the gunsmith. You lean over a wooden railing as you draw a heaved gasp, though the succeeding exhale is far more serene. The cold air is doing wonders in assuaging your state of mind. The smog however, is not.

A century-old mining town, Annesburg is filled with noise even this late at night. Chatters and hollers from late-night workers living in the small huts behind you, dogs yapping, metal clanging against metal, locomotives far and near… A door slamming! Your hands clutch the circular handrail. Upon realizing the noise came from one of the shacks behind you and not the sheriff’s office, you loosen your grip a little. You should go. Now, before it _is_ the door to the sheriff’s office you hear. Then why aren’t you? Because as fate would have it, Arthur Morgan is now your best and perhaps only chance at finding Nevans. Because as of now, a confrontation seems inevitable anyways.

Not quite ready to acknowledge the tingles deep in your stomach and their implication you stand idle by, absentmindedly watching ships and liners gliding over Lannahechee River, a tranquil view that is quite a contrast to the thunderstorm raging inside you despite your apparent equanimity. A sudden gust of wind has you tucking your knitted cardigan around you. Spoilt by temperate climate for months you had underestimated how cold it can get up here this time of the year, especially at night.

A door to your right swinging open sends another kind of shiver down your spine. You hear the scrape of a match being struck against a surface, followed by the distinct smell of a lit cigarette. There is hardly any doubt who it is. Arthur takes his time approaching you, dragging his feet along the dirt-caked ground. With only your ears and nose to pinpoint his movements, as you can’t bring yourself to look, every step, every shuffle of pebbles and dirt, every puff followed by a whiff of cigarette smoke has shivers of trepidation, mortification and as much as you’d like to deny it, a rousing buzz of exhiliration shooting through you. When he finally steps up beside you it feels like your heart is about to burst through your chest.

“Sorry to hear ‘bout your pa.”

You can tell from his posture that he is not looking at you either. Your eyes are transfixed on his gloved hands circling the handrail, like yours.

“Don’t you dare talk about him!”

“That’s gonna be a bit hard if you want my help catching his killer.”

“I do not want nor need your help!” you spit out, your knuckles white. Though the first bit might be true the second is not, no matter how much you want it to be.

“You go out there alone you won’t even last two hours.”

Seems like the sheriff has done a good job in detailing every bit of your conversation. You had meant to just throw a quick glance, but now that your eyes are locked onto him it’s impossible to look away. His hair is longer than what you remember, with dirt-blonde locks floating around the collar of his jacket down to his shoulders. You scrutinize every feature, like you had in the bath house when you first met him many months ago, instantly charmed by a friendly smile and a pair of teal-marine eyes framed by white bubbles in honey-colored hair. Now all you see is a bitter and sour-faced countenance hidden under a broad-brimmed hat. The thick, three-week beard does little to conceal his tense jaw. You can hardly believe it’s the same person, both familiar and alien at once. He is unkempt and filthy, both looking and smelling like a lumberjack returning from the woods end-season or a hermit that’s been living out in the wild for months.

When Arthur eventually breaks the silence, you realize you have been staring at him for a good solid half a minute, and probably not in a pleasant way.

“Revenge ain’t gonna bring him back, ya know.”

“It’s about justice, not revenge,” you maintain. “I want him to face the consequences for what he did. So that he can’t hurt anyone else.”

A train comes rolling in close to where you are standing. You pause, waiting for the noise to settle as jittery, agile fingers dance along the railing in an attempt at countering the numbness settling in your fingertips.

“I wouldn’t exactly be sad if he was to die but no, I don’t want him dead if that’s what you think. Death is too easy. I want him to suffer as I have suffered. And the families of the others he killed.”

“Yer gonna get yerself killed out there!”

“Then that is my choice!”

“I thought you was a smart woman.”

“And I thought you were – I thought you were - …”

Suddenly you feel like the naivest dupe to have ever walked the face of the earth. Arthur clenches his jaw so tight it’s a wonder he doesn’t crush his teeth. You start to rapidly blink your eyelids, knowing very well you were deceived by none other than yourself. The manhunter lowers his chin, hiding from you the penitence clouding his eyes as he draws a heaved sigh. When he looks at you again, his guise is blank. You pull out Nevans’ curled-up poster from the travel bag draped over your shoulder.

“I’m not leaving until he’s caught, one way or the other.”

With a lengthy drag of what is left of the cigarette, Arthur studies the drawing of Nevans in much the same way sheriff Jones had earlier though in considerably less amount of time before folding the poster into his satchel with a discontented grunt. The cigarette stump falls to the ground, awaiting its predestined, inevitable fate of being smothered by Arthur’s boot.

“Sheriff said you got a room here?”

You respond with a nod, upon which he insists on walking you to your room, emphasized by body language as he reaches for your bag, which only prompts you to hold on to it more tightly. You sort of agree to a compromise, he gets to escort you to your accommodation for the night, but you carry the bag yourself. As you cross the street you wonder exactly what you gained from that, aside from retaining a perceived sense of obstinate, useless pride. Any questions pertaining to your means of transport ends with curt, one-word responses on your end. Inside the lodge, you slump your bag on the floor. Your newfound companion remains in the doorway, seemingly reassured you have a place to stay and a bed to sleep in.

“Stay here until I return!” he barks, his command emphasized by a piercing stare. He barely finishes the sentence before slamming the door behind him.

With Arthur gone the sparsely furnished room feels larger and colder somehow. The walls are so barren that not only do they lack paintings and other wall ornaments but they are also devoid of any overlay like wallpaper or paint. It’s just cold cement over a brick wall. Annesburg doesn’t have much to offer its overnight guests, in fact, not as much as a chair to put your luggage on, but there is a small dresser in a corner at least, in another a bed large enough for two albeit that wouldn’t offer much leg room, and a large mirror in a third.

You deliberately avoid your own eyes. The short glimpse you inadvertently and unwillingly caught of your reflection a moment ago served as a harsh reminder that you look about as you feel, a visual narrative of your dejected state which does not in any way tempt an encore.

You suddenly become painfully aware of how far away from home you are, so far away from any home you’ve ever known. Hoping the wistfulness sprouting from the seed of homesickness will wither by the comfort of sleep you prepare for bed, which means tucking the thin, yellow blanket around you and finding a comfortable position as there is no way you are changing into your thin nightgown.

An eternity of seconds and minutes tick by, turning to hours. For each toss and turn, sleep seems further away. Your body grows colder by the minute, and in your stomach there’s a hollow pit of seething hunger, the kind you get when you’ve barely eaten in days. Alone and cold in this foreign place you shiver perpetually through the night due to lack of proper clothing and an unyielding draft from the two windows. You get up to retrieve a tightly woven shawl from your bag, tucking it neatly around you before returning to bed. The extra layer cocooned around you adds little in the sense of warmth and soon you shiver as fiercely as before.

You start thinking of a pair of kind eyes, the irises a diffuse, unnaturally beautiful hue of aquamarine blue and light emerald green. You wonder what he is doing, when he will come back, if at all and whether or not he has a warm place to sleep.

Exhausted by incessant shivers, the ruthless clutch of mourn, and a stomach screaming for food your mind, against your wish and better judgement, gives way to longing for warmth from a broad chest and tender words of comfort from a voice somehow both gruff and soothing. You imagine Arthur wrapping his arms around you as he tells you everything will be all right. Keeping you warm. Safe. A shoulder to cry on. The comforting thought putting your soul at ease is brusquely replaced by one of shame and hurt when the very same Arthur looms over your terror-struck father, a closed fist smeared in your kin’s blood as he raises his arm for a second punch. This darkest of thought mercifully fades to Arthur offering you money to live out your dream, getting himself into who knows what kind of troubles by doing so. This already fun miasma of emotions also opts to engulf averse affection springing from the memory of a muzzle in Arthur’s hands as he calms a jittered stallion. The same one your uncle had to sell to pay off debt.

In the twilight of slumber, where you can’t be sure whether you are dreaming or half-awake, Arthur’s voice speaking your name reaches your clouded mind.

“Jeez, you’re stone cold!”

Hours of ice-cold air invading your lungs has drained you of the lifeblood that is vital body heat, and you can’t move save from unending shivers and irrepressible clapping of teeth. The mattress sways, as if weighed down by something heavy, followed by the swoosh of fabric against fabric.

“I’m gonna get you warm, okay? I ain’t g-”

His words drift off. Your voice is but barely a squeak. A pair of arms wrap around you, and your fantasy turns very real as you are hoisted onto his lap. Your hands are on fire, struck by tidal waves of alternating hot and cold when pressed against Arthur’s warm chest. Your icy hands on his bare skin has him twitching and shuddering, yet he keeps them there, shielded by his clothes, giving them the warmth they so desperately need. You slide in and out of awareness, wondering if you are hallucinating, dreaming or still lost in that half-slumber fantasy of yours, or if he’s really there, though you nose and the prickling of his beard on your forehead tells you that yes, he is.

An indefinite number of minutes later, the numbness in your fingertips gives way to tingles, followed by prickling of your cheeks, though the tip of your nose is still growing icicles. You try fending off the numbness settled in your limbs by moving your arms and legs. Deliberate muscle movements replacing reflexive shivers, and with the acuity of awareness returning to your eyes, Arthur gingerly moves you from his lap and onto the bed.

“How are you feelin’?”

You sit up on the bedside, tucking away strains of hair loosened from the tangled mess of a bun on your head. It is then you notice the weight around your shoulders. Arthur’s coat. Its sheepskin lining smells of moist earth, whiskey, manure, tobacco and _him_. He must have wrapped it around you sometime during the early morning hours. _Warm_. _Cozy._ Your brain says, _return it_. Your freezing body says, _tuck it close_. The latter wins. The coat’s owner makes no attempt at reclaiming it despite having only a thin, blue cotton shirt and a union suit to protect him against the cold.

“I- eh,” he starts, flustered. “You was as blue as – blueberries.”

You remember now. The repeated knocks on the door. Arthur’s voice calling your name, to which you could barely manage a few, measly squeals. He takes out a small vial from the leather bag draped around his chest, unscrewing the lid before handing it to you.

“Here, drink this.”

His words are emphasized by a persuading gaze and persistent movements of his arm, whose hand is holding the small decanter. You hesitantly grab it, and put the tip to your nose. A pungent aroma has you pulling back about half an inch.

“You’re giving me alcohol?”

Now, it could have been your imagination, but you could’ve sworn you just saw a tinge of red flush his cheeks. Though nothing strange or peculiar about the act itself or the complemented verbal exchange, it is evident what you both are thinking, re-visited by memories of your last pleasant moment together -and the unfortunate aftermath.

“Just drink. It’ll warm ya up.”

The hollow, circular outline of glass touches your lip, and you down first one swallow, immediately followed by a second. The liquor flares up in your throat, triggering a series of coughs. The bottle disappears from your hand.

“All right, that's quite enough.”

“What are you doing here?” you brittlely squeak. “Worried I’d go on without you?” He doesn’t reply to that. You swipe a knuckle under your watery eyes. “Any leads on Nevans?”

“I been sleepin’.”

“Yeah, of course.” Composure regained, you stare down at your fingers intertwining with the playful and energetic intimacy as that of earthworms in wet, nurturing soil. Your cheeks are warm, a bashful, flushing glow after your vehement tête-a-tête with the alcohol. You are sure it’s just the alcohol.

“I have not.”

He sits idle, his face turned from you. Uncommunicative in words and body language, the only indicator to the gears in his head being exhales that, while not exactly sighs or grunts, are still loud enough to hear. You can only speculate as to what he is thinking as possible subjects are numerous, all equally probable of occupying his mind. And his subsequent actions leaves you none the wiser.

“Wait here.”

With those two words he disappears out the door -again, leaving you, and his jacket behind. The liquor in your empty stomach promptly arouse a drowsiness you haven’t felt in days, and your eyes go heavy. You slump down on the bed. Knees to chin and arms encircling both thighs and calves you doze off, warm and restful under Arthur’s jacket, and the smell of him and his adventures where even the unpleasant ones bring with them a sense of comfort as it makes you feel close to him. A sense of companionship, which effectively extinguishes the blazing flame of loneliness.

You are roused awake by a knock on the door. Or likely, by the fifth in a series of repeated knocks. To your reply, Arthur enters the room, handing you a bundle of clothes. The weight of his jacket is lifted off your shoulders and returned to its owner. You unfold the garments one by one, carefully placing each onto the bed once you’re finished studying it. A white parka made out of ram hide reaching down to your thighs with a leather belt to hold in place a fluffy, sheepskin vest. Skirt, linens and undergarments made of tightly woven wool, and a pair of winter gloves lined with white fur.

As the last piece falls on top of the others, Arthur takes a break from rubbing his arms over the denim fabric to hand you something from his satchel. You notice with a hint of surprise that his beard is gone, unmasking the shape of his jawline and the deep-seated scar on his chin. Though you can hardly reflect on that when you see what is in his hands.

“It ain’t much, just some dried meat and bread. Figured you hasn’t eaten in a while.”

You stand stumped for about half a second, then hunger wins and you wolf down the food, manners and etiquette being the last thing on your mind. Luckily the meal is not of the fatty or succulent kind, leaving your face and fingers mostly clean.

“How much do I owe you?” you mumble through chews, flushing down the last mouthful with water from Arthur’s canteen.

He ignores that. “I have a lead on that Nevans fellar,” he divulges, plucking at loose fibers of lint on his fingerless gloves. “Them fine folks at Butcher’s Creek saw him head up Roanoke Ridge four days ago. If I leave now, I might get lucky and catch his trail.”

You take note of the general direction he is alluding to, towards and just above the Sheriff’s office. “It’s a pretty large area,” you observe. “He could be anywhere by now.”

“Which is why there’s no time to lose.”

“Let’s go then.”

You already know you are going to receive a scold, either in words or in tone, by the way his eyes narrow, and the complementary disgruntled curl of his lip.

“ _We_ ain’t going anywhere. I’ll go and you are going to stay here, or better yet, go back to yer family.”

Appreciation immediately gives way for vexation for being once again told by men older than you what to do, well-meant but no less patronizing in your eyes. However, persuasion is not an option. He is not going to give in, that much is clear there he stands by the door, waiting for your resign.

“I need to post some letters.”

You show him the letters you wrote at the sheriff’s office, whereupon he leaves after telling you to meet him outside in five minutes. You assume it’s meant as a cue to change into your new clothes and immediately do so. The handmade, quality hides and pelts are a perfect fit.

Arthur is brushing his steed when you exit the frozen, barren tundra of a room. You hand him six two-dollar bills. Or, try to.

“For the food and clothes.”

A disgruntled eye-roll accompanied by a heaved sigh tells you that the gesture is not appreciated. You don’t care.

“Is all right. A fella there owed me some favors, so I got’em cheap.”

“Cheap is not free, and you still went through the trouble of getting me the clothes.” _Not to mention leaving behind your jacket._ “My inability to pack properly and feed myself should not be at your expense. Besides, I owe you enough as it is.”

He accepts the money with a _hmpf_ , hands two of the notes back to you and pockets the rest. You walk together the short distance to the post office slash train station where he once again urges you to go back home. You fake acquiesce by ambiguous grumbles. After you have parted ways, you both track each other’s movements with stolen glances, the bounty hunter to make sure you enter the train station, and you to take note of the direction he is heading. After mailing the letters, you hurry back for your bag, mount your newly acquired horse, and steer the animal in the same direction as you had last seen Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not mean to say that beard is not a good look for Arthur or anything ^^' All preferences for this cowboy are super valid, but I, like most others I reckon, have my personal preferences and that does reflect in my writing sometimes. I just like the idea of a post gang breakup where Arthur is alive, living by himself by and large, not giving two cents about his appearance until he meets our MC again, and starts paying attention to his hygiene, appearance and behavior.
> 
> I have as much love for the ruffled, unkempt, unshaven gunslinger Arthur as I have for the well-groomed, tuxedo Arthur though I do have a soft spot for beard 2-3 and hair 4-5. I like a lil bit of beard on him, but not so much that I can’t see that strong jawline of his, and when his hair is long enough for a lock or two to drop down his forehead. But any hair length and style suits him well.


	3. Would You Have Killed Him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has canon-typical violence and graphic content. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your patience, coninued interest and support! It means so much.

Thanks to the directions from workers and trekkers, you’ve been able to follow the manhunter’s trail out of Annesburg just fine, but now that you have left the settlement and with no one in sight to ask, you’re left pondering what to do next time the road splits in two. A concern which, although understandable, will soon prove to be needless.

The Roanoke forest is quiet and peaceful, with the usual sounds of nature blending with the discreet thump of hooves against dirt-pebbled ground. The serenity leaves you puzzled as to all the horror stories related to this area. Stories told with keen, but apprehensive excite, often accompanied by ardent warnings from men and women, the white in their eyes matching the tone of their voice.

Of all these tales, anecdotes, writings and warnings, you wonder how much holds true, how much is a tenfold exaggeration of real events and how much is merely the product of paranoia stemming from folks with vivid imaginations, often, you assume, coupled with a desire for attention. Although having, up until recently at least, led a peaceful life shielded from the world’s cruelty you are not so naïve as to be blind to it. That is what you like to think anyways. Though you are also well aware of what a vibrant, overzealous imagination can do to retellings of events that in reality transpired rather uneventful. In particular when relayed in a ‘ _heard-it-from-a-friend-of-a-friend’_ kind of way.

For all your best efforts at self-reassurance, you thread deeper into the forest with a jittering heart. In more ways than one you are entering unknown territory. _It will all be good_ , you tell yourself, once you find Arthur. Unless he hogties you on the spot, places you on the rear of his horse and takes you straight back to Annesburg, or Saint Denis, a scenario more realistic than you’d like to admit. You hope and wish, you fear and dread, that you will catch up with him soon, and which of these opposing emotions dominate changes by the beat of a heart.

At the top of a small hill, false sense of tranquility immediately turns to real alarm as Arthur, and the metal barrel pointing at his face, comes into view. You pull the bridles, stirring a surprised cry. Dread race through you followed by immediate, but evanescent relief as you realize the ambushers had not been alerted, then apprehension returns. The man with the gun waves his hand, and the man with the black hat dismounts his steed. You jump off your own steed and sneak behind a shrub.

You count a total of three men, about to rob the bounty hunter by the looks of it, though more might be hiding nearby. Your hand hovers over the revolver. You’ve only fired a gun once in your life, at an unmovable target – and missed, upon which you’d started wailing at the unexpected recoil. You could shoot into the air. No, that might distract Arthur too. You want to distract the outlaws doing the robbing, not the outlaw being robbed. Or bounty hunter, or whatever he is now. Besides, a gunshot would alert them of your position, an undesirable consequence indeed.

You scan the surroundings for threats and opportunities but the vegetation, surprisingly thick for this time of the year, makes an untrained eye powerless to skillful observation. Any sweeping of leaves or shuffling of branches could be a looming threat, or merely the deceiving but innocuous gust of wind.

A trample of hooves has your heart skip a beat, but it also spawns an idea. Because of the direction he is facing, Arthur would see a horse running from uphill, though the neighs and trampling hooves would _-might-_ throw off the robbers for a second or two, providing the gunslinger with a window to quick draw his weapon and go into hiding. Your hope.

Though impossible to foresee the exact outcome of this interference due to the sheer number of variables, no other idea spawns as to how you can best shift this unfortunate predicament in Arthur’s favor. The moment the gunman puts his hand inside the bounty hunter’s satchel you send off your mare in a direction that is not directly at the group, yet provides enough distraction in Arthur’s favor.

The unmistakable sound of a gunshot roars the air, followed by another. Then a third. After that, you stop counting. Sometimes the shots are fired off in quick succession, other times they’re interspersed by hollers and sounds of feet rushing through leaves and shrubs. The primal, _older-than-man_ fight, flight or hide instinct kicks in. The latter wins. Hiding behind a tree trunk and dense forest vegetation, arms over your head, you make yourself as small as you can. You just _know_ you had screamed though you have no memory of it.

Had anybody heard?

Arthur must have taken cover behind something, judging from the numerous, unknown voices calling out phrases like, _show yourself, coward_. Seconds later, shots are again fired.

Are _you_ a coward for hiding in shrubberies, leaving Arthur to fend off these malicious savages all by himself?

But what can you do?

When the gunfire dies down, the shouting resumes. The number of unknown voices are down by one. The whole thing repeats itself, making you go cold with fear that after the next shootout, the number of unknown voices will be the same and that it is Arthur’s voice you no longer hear. Your hand hovers over the holster dangling at your side.

_Try to shoot some of these assholes, you coward! It’s because of you he is even here._

More shouts, hollers of menace and sneers by unknown voices. One less than before. You clutch the handle. The sound of gunfire and bullets ricocheting off tree trunks is heard again. You stare down at the firearm in your trembling hand.

_Let him deal with it? This is hardly his first shootout._

The succeeding choir of threats and taunts sounds more spread out. Are they trying to flank him?

Peeking up from your hiding spot, what meets your eye perfectly matches the sounds you’ve heard. Arthur shoots a man approaching him to the right. First in the shoulder, then in the chest. You scream out a warning as another assaulter approaches from the left, out of his peripheral vision.

It’s then you see him. The gangly man fast approaching _you_.

Your firearm is unsteadily aimed at the threat, closing in on you. So does your vision. Your senses so focused all you see is a toothless, taunting leer. And the shimmer from a metal blade.

Your hand trembles like that of a yellow leaf clinging onto its branch of birth during an autumn storm in its desperation of avoiding the inevitable, forthcoming death. Your finger is on the trigger, but you can’t bring yourself to press down at the tiny piece of metal, can’t bring yourself to end the life of another human being, even if he is a direct threat, even if he has no qualms about ending yours.

You wonder if you’ll be able to pull the trigger once you feel the pain from his knife cutting into your skin and flesh, or his hands around your neck, or if he tries to take your gun, or…

You start pressing -

_Closer!_

You press – 

A thunderous sound roars the air, and what was once a head is now to an explosion of red, as if a watermelon has been struck by a sledgehammer, spraying the immediate surrounding in a crimson hail, including you. The headless body drops to the ground. You turn away from the ghastly sight, to the bounty hunter whom you had alternately been eagerly anticipating and dreading a reunion. Holstering a Sawed-off Shotgun, his eyes meet yours in a soundless scold. Telling you exactly how he feels about your meddling. The mere fact that you’ve done exactly what he told you not to.

The _fear and dread_ part dominates.

You resolve to stay calm, to speak with unwavering determination and conviction. A resolution easier made than kept. Wheezing huffs and gurgling puffs somewhere to your right has him turn his head, and attention elsewhere, ignoring you. For now.

You circle the shrubbery to Arthur lifting up a survivor by the suspenders of his overalls. With a growl more menacing than you would have even thought possible the manhunter asks him the expected questions while holding Nevans’ bounty poster to his blood-smeared face. When met with haughty chuckles followed by mocking retorts, he repeats the interrogation with fierce vigor, all while growing increasingly threatening, both with words and with brute force.

“Yeah, we met him,” he slurs. The few teeth still remaining are as red as his face. “Asked for the way to Brandywine Drop. We answered by pullin’out our guns.”

For each spoken word, the gurgles deep in his throat becomes more prominent. A series of coughs spray Arthur’s face with blood, though whether intentional or not you can’t be sure.

“He wasn’t too happy’bout that’n killed some of ours instead. Bastard was fast, gotta give him that.”

The bounty hunter lets go and watches the assaulter fall to the floor where he takes his last breath, upon which the former proceeds to go through the pockets on the latter’s denim overall.

“Damn inbred yokels. Barely got anything worthwhile on’em.”

The aftermath of the shootout hits you like seven-day milk gone sour. You dip forward, placing your hands on your knees, an inescapable response to overwhelming distress. Bodies, seven or eight that you can see, some with missing body parts, all covered in blood, all looking more or less like the one that had tried to gut you. Skinny, barefoot, and dressed in simple clothing.

“Were they the Murfree Brothers?”

“ _Broods_.”

The gunslinger seems entirely unconcerned by the recent massacre here he hauls the corpse over his shoulder with the same nonchalance as if he was picking up a sack of wheat to take to the grinder.

“Pardon?”

A thump is heard as he drops the body. “Broods, not brothers. Real friendly folks they are.”

He locates another corpse, and repeats the procedure, blasé to the fact that each loot and subsequent move gets him further caked in mud and blood.

“What the-“

Neither of you had noticed the stranger. When you see his face, you understand why Arthur is going through the trouble of hiding the bodies.

“Hey, they were tryin’a rob me!”

“I’m reporting this to the law.”

The man spurs his horse into gallop. Or, tries to but Arthur pulls him off before he even gets to the trot with the steed spurring ahead. Exuding an uncompromising authority he holds the man up by his throat close to the jawbone, his other hand alternating between a closed fist or holding onto the lapels of his jacket. That Arthur is beefy you have known since you first laid eyes on him, but now he somehow seems twice as large as when you had talked to him only an hour ago.

“You ain’t going to no law,” he sneers, lifting the poor man up by the throat. “Don’t you even think ’bout telling anyone what you seen here."

His fingers dig into the unlucky man’s skin, at a place that, while undoubtedly uncomfortable, does not bring forward an immediate promise of lethal force - yet. It is glaringly obvious that Arthur knows exactly where and how hard to press for the desired effect, and this time the purpose of his hand around another man’s throat is one of intimidation rather than asphyxiation, where the force of each fingertip serves to accommodate the complementary series of verbal threats and warnings.

And yet, with a slight shift of fingers, caused by a sudden change of heart triggered by the slightest twitch of muscle or eye movement, or perhaps even by pure impulse, the outlaw could easily crush the man’s larynx or snap his neck should he deem it de rigueur.

The man gurgles through whines of pleas, and you can only hope it’s, for him, the _right_ kind of twitches and yaps. The ones that will keep him alive. Arthur shifts his grip, now holding onto the collar he forces the witness to look in your direction.

“See that lady over there? You my friend, ought to be real grateful that lady’s with me today because, if it wasn’t for her, I would have already killed you.”

Through a series of stuttering squeals the passerby spits out what sounds like an assurance of his discretion followed by gratitude of being allowed to live. As soon as Arthur lets go, he bolts off. The gunslinger turns to you, his face wild, a countenance distorted by vexation from your perverseness.

“Do you ever listen to what anyone says?”

“I was just- out for a ride, and happened to be passing by.”

The glare he sends you is a strikingly harsh contrast to the bashful glances from many months ago. You take off your gloves, and start dragging one of the Broods by his arms.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting rid of the bodies. Don’t want anyone else-” nausea wells up in you, “…getting the wrong…,” you choke down a gag, “- idea, now will we?”

“You ain’t gonna stop, are ya?” You hear a languid sigh behind your back. “All right, fine. But you do exactly as I say!”

“I know, I know.” You let go as soon as you reach a shrub. “If I don’t respect the land it’ll eat me alive, or something?”

Arthur lets out a mirthless laugh. “Oh, you can respect the land all you want, Princess. But if you don’t know how to take care of yerself, yer gonna become one with the land real fast.”

“I get it, okay.”

“Oh no, I don’t think you do. It ain’t just the land that can kill you up here.”

Looking down at your red-tinted hands, covered in blood from the Broods all the way up to your elbows. Revulsion makes your stomach spasm again. Yeah, you get it.

Arthur’s Gold Cremello Warmblood and your buckskin Standardbred returns at the former’s command. You continue on until you reach a stream where Arthur stops to wash the blood off his hands and clothes. You join him to do the same. Keeping a good five feet distance to him, you throw the odd glance in his direction.

The clear mountain water turns a faint red as the outlaw washes himself clear of his sins. He all but appears to be ignoring you, but you can tell from the clenched jaw that he is well aware of your presence. You get the intuition of gears turning in his head, as if thinking of what to say, or whether to speak at all. You come to realize it’s up to you to break the silence.

“If I hadn’t been here, would you have killed him?”

“Maybe…” His hands dip into the river again, filling his cupped palms with water to splash his face.

The response is curt, instant and cold. He removes his hat to run a hand through his hair as he stares out into nothing, his mien somehow both angry and aloof.

_White bubbles in honey-colored locks. A bashful tug at plush lips in response to your smile._

The same man had physically assaulted two innocent people right before your eyes. Had only a few moments ago taken several lives without hesitation or a second thought. It had to be done. It’s - not that he had killed the Broods per se, but with the ease he had pulled the trigger. You can’t help but to wonder, who is the _true_ Arthur Morgan.

“I bet you feel real disgusted thinkin’ about how you touched me.”

His whisper invades your train of thought. It comes off as a statement, though sounds like a question.

_“Don’t-”_

“What else am I supposed to- I’m sorry, okay! I’m sorry I didn’t stop ya. Sorry for askin’ for ya. Sorry I ever came back to that place.”

You rise, shaking the meltwater off your icy hands.

“That ain’t what you should be sorry for.”


	4. I Shot Him!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the abrupt end. Chapters 4 and 5 belong together. I had to cut due to wc.
> 
> According to the RDR2 wiki, the Cattleman revolver is modelled after the Colt Model 1873 Single Action Army Revolver, the Varmint Rifle I treated as a standard hunting rifle.

“What now? Are we going to that Brandywine Drop place?” you ask with a mouthful of meat that is surprisingly savory albeit a tad smoked after several minutes over an open flame.

“As good a place to start as any.”

Arthur’s filet is gone in three bites, upon which he starts devouring the contents of an open can.

“You think he might be hiding there?”

“Maybe.” Content downed sans cutlery or crockery, he tosses the empty canister aside and proceeds to swipe his glossy chin with the back of his hand. No need for napkins either, apparently.

“You know where it is?”

The previous responses, although brief and monotone, seem heartily verbose compared to the rather ambiguous grunt your last question is met with, not to mention three hours on horseback in more or less uncomfortable silence. You suspect he’s been camping here before. This place isn’t visible from the road, and yet he’d steered off the path with steadfast resolute.

You try again. “You seem to know your way around this land.”

“ _This_ part of the land, yeah. Stayed in the area with my old gang for a while last year. Before everything…”

The way his voice fades alludes to a story behind that drawn out, enigmatic _everything_ , and you imagine, it is quite the story. You pluck at your dinner, tearing off a slice that finds its way to your mouth. You are curious of this gang of his, but judging by his prevaricate, stump responses you doubt he’d tell you much, and you resolve to ask him when he is in a more loquacious mood.

After the meal, Arthur sharpens projectiles with his knife, and you put your education to good use by crafting tonics from herbs you’d gathered while your companion had been securing dinner. You’d set up camp on _a meadow lush with flora and wildlife._ Arthur had spent a good ten minutes setting up his tent only to offer it, and his bedroll, to you, unrolling a tattered, old blanket close to the campfire which you are sitting on now. You’d placed your travel bag inside the tent, both out of keenness of benefit from the newfound privacy, and because you know from experience that it doubles as a decent pillow. You pour the newly made remedies into tiny glass bottles you had brought with you, then you start on a batch of horse medicine.

“You sure you know what you’re doing there?”

The rasping momentarily stops as he points the knife at the small pot in your hands. A flare of hurt has a scoff dwelling on your tongue, though you hold it back. In all fairness, you haven’t exactly proven yourself as an outdoorsperson.

“I study herbalism. At the university. Or, I used to, up until a fortnight ago.” Arthur frowns. “Botany and herbal medicine,” you clarify. “I wanted to study medicine. I tried for a bit but,” you let out a disenchanted sigh at the remembrance of many a derogatory comment and haughty stare. “I guess society’s not quite ready for lady doctors yet, so I figured I’d make things easier on myself and switch to plant medicine.”

After muttering something inaudible, the rasping resumes. You fill another set. The total of herb-based concoctions is now counting eight. Maybe you could pass this escapade off as field-relevant excursion.

Several minutes pass without the sound of his voice, or yours. You curl up by the campfire, lulled by the rhythmic rasps of steel against lead. Ambient sounds and mood are gradually changing as day turns to dusk. Creatures of the sun go to rest, and nocturnal hunters awakens. Your first night out in the wild is fast approaching.

You throw the occasional glance or two at the source of the _wush-wush_ sound. _His_ attention remains glued to the task at hand, his mind at a place unknown to you though one thing is clear. He has not fallen for the temptation, which had you sweep up your eyes.

There was a time he couldn’t take his eyes of you, or you, your hands of him. Because you were paid to yes, but no, not really. You were more than happy to, paid or not. How briskly the atmosphere had shifted between you. How swiftly it can still shift with just the look of an eye or alteration of voice.

The task at hand shifts from sharpening of projectiles to weapon maintenance. There is but little skin visible, unconcealed by fingerless gloves or the brim of his headwear. You remember seeing far more of that, of him, and quick, stolen glances turns into a steadfast stare. You remember your hands on him, happily rubbing and scrubbing him, _all_ of him. It’s a memory spawned from reflex rather than willfulness. Nonetheless, it makes you flush.

Feeling your eyes on him, Arthur lifts his head and his eyes meet yours, undoubtedly taking note of the change in your complexion, - and its implication. A rush of blood sears through your cheeks, your lips, your neck, your ears. So much for a future career as a poker player.

“Can you- eh, show me how to- take care of, and clean th-”

You take out your own gun and forward it to the outlaw - former outlaw, possibly, hoping it will suffice as distraction. He accepts with a nod. You move next to him - for a better view, and to better hear his low, near-mumbling instructions you scoot up shoulder to shoulder. The hitch of his breath is subtle, one you would have easily missed if you hadn’t been sitting so close. You shift again and straighten your back. After releasing the pent-up breath, he shows you how to keep the gun free of dirt and rust with an oil-soaked rag, dismantling the cylinder, and-

“This one’s been fired.”

Holding up the casing, he points at a small indentation in response to your puzzled frown.

“Fired? But-”

 _A lanky, but no less threatening figure closing in, knife in hand. Ready to slash. You struggle to pull the trigger, to end a human life. Saved by Arthur in the nick of time._ You were sure he’d beaten you to the trigger. But the evidence before you don’t lie.

“I shot him!” you exclaim.

“You shot s’mthin’ all right.”

“What do you mean, _something_?”

Arthur reassembles the firearm and hands it back to you. “You pulled the trigger, but you ain’t got a clue where the bullet went, and neither do I.”

You stare down at the arm in your hand, slick and oily, admitting with reluctance that yes, you have no idea whether or not you hit the assailant. Until now, you’d been positive you hadn’t even pulled the trigger. For all you know the bullet could’ve gone backwards.

“Point that thing somewhere else.”

You mumble an apology, and retrieve a cartridge from your belt, drop it, pick it up again with a visible tremble, open the loading gate and… how did you get this thing to spin again?

“Here, let me show y-“

You tense. He stops mid-sentence, his arms mid-air. “Okay, eh, just…”

A subdued, but notable stutter. The skin over his cheekbones and the helix of his ears a rosy hue. All subtle hints of momentary, faltering unease that in no way deter him from demonstrating how to eject the casings and reload cartridges with his own, ornately engraved cattleman.

“Make sure you only load five bullets, like this.” He releases the revolving magazine holder, loads a cartridge into the first empty slot, spins the cylinder clockwise, and leaves the second chamber vacant before proceeding to load the other four chambers.

_Click, click, click, click._

“See that thing there?” He draws your attention to a metal spike attached on the inside part of the hammer. “That’s the firing pin. You wanna make sure it’s restin’ on an empty chamber.”

“Why?”

“So that you don’t accidentally shoot yerself in the foot.”

“Is this how you load your guns?”

His piercing blue locks onto yours. Gone is the abashment from just a moment ago. “Do as I say, not as I do. Understood?”

“But how- won’t you have to pull the trigger twice before the weapon shoots?”

“Nah, watch.”

Aiming at an unknown target, you observe a clockwise rotation of the cylinder as he slowly cocks the hammer. He discharges the firearm without warning, visibly and audibly startling you. The projectile snags a protruding twig in the distance. Mouth agape and palms clasped over your ears with fanned-out fingers, you are quite the opposite of the man at your side. A thought coursing through his mind, unknown to you - for now, he rises to gather bottles, cans, and a rifle from his horse’s saddle, before he starts crossing the meadow, beckoning for you to follow with a head yank.

As you don’t feel like sitting alone you trail behind him with uneasiness and curiosity. After a hundred yards or so, he beckons for you to halt with a raised hand. You watch him place the bottles and cans on top of a large boulder adjacent to one another, before he finally returns to your side.

“Now you shoot’em of that rock.”

Aside from today, you’ve only ever fired a gun once, behind the homestead where you grew up the month after your thirteenth birthday, your supposed entry into adulthood though you were barely a teenager. Considering the events of today, it seems harsh, almost cruel even that he should force this upon you now. A dialogue to reach a mutual agreement would have been appreciated, or even just a warning beforehand. Arthur, however, remains unceremoniously unfazed, unshaken, unwavering at the perturbation in your countenance as he, resolutely and not at all politely, repeats what he just said while looking you dead in the eyes.

“What if I already know how?”

He lets out a grumbled sigh. One of his favorite means of communication it seems. “Listen, princess,” he snarls, thumbs hooked onto his gun belt. “I ain’t in the mood to be trifled with. Either you learn how to use that gun of yours, or I’ll throw you over my horse’s ass,” he unhooks a hand and points at the Warmblood grassing under a copse of trees, “and take ya straight to the nearest train station where I’ll personally put ya on a train back to Saint Denis.”

You have no doubt as to the sincerity of the threat. He glances at the sky, then his attention returns to you. “I reckon we got ten-fifteen minutes before it gets dark, so let’s make th’most of it.”

“Won’t this draw unwanted attention?” you ponder, today’s ambush painfully fresh in your memory.

“Then I’ll deal with it.”

On the other side of the bottle-and-can-holding rock is a slope leading down to the road. Behind you is the meadow which you’d just crossed, with the campsite visible in the distance. To your right is a wall of mountain, and to your left an outline of trees. The trained gunman by your side ought to have no problem spotting potential hostiles in this open land. Conversely, the surrounding vegetation provides excellent cover for a decent shot.

“What if you don’t have time to deal with it?”

The glare he sends you has you thinking he is but one more audacious retort from making good of his promise-slash-threat. Dropping the cocky veneer, you reluctantly comply. At least you’ll void the discomfort of verbal idleness.

“Can you remove the bottles, please?”

He does not respond nor move. “Animals can cut themselves on the shards,” you continue.

“There’s already a bunch’a broken glass over there. What a few more gonna do?”

“Please?”

He does as you say, but not without the compulsory grumbles of vexation. After a quick scope, he finds another two cans to replace the bottles, returning with a glare of waning patience.

He is not going to indulge another deferral. There’s no escaping the impromptu shooting lesson. Arthur won’t be persuaded to put this off until tomorrow, that much is clear. Either do as he says or prepare for a bumpy ride back to Annesburg. In your eagerness to get it over with you pull out the cattleman with nimble hands, cocking the hammer as you take a step forward, - and stumble into something which sends you staggering forward. The weapon, still slick with oil residue, flies out of your hand and through the air, making you quite the gunslinger in the most literal sense, before it hits the ground and detonates on impact.

“Goddammit, woman! Are ya tryin’a kill me _?!_ ”

The gunshot is immediately followed by a dull thump as the plump mass of a dead bird hits the ground, earning another startle on your end. You don’t even dare to look in Arthur’s direction, but your peripheral vison reveals that he is rubbing his head, or something, and you fear you are _this_ close to get intimately acquainted with the rear of Arthur’s mount. With another heaved sigh he goes to pluck the carcass free of feathers, which find their way into his satchel before he unholsters his knife. You watch with rising unease as the metal blade slices through the bird corpse. The darkening sky and ominous clouds add to the gloomy atmosphere.

In three languid steps, he picks up the discharged revolver, and hands it back to you. “This’ why you wanna make sure the firing pin’s restin’ on an empty chamber.”

With a bowed head you accept and holster the cattleman. He then hands you the weapon draped across his back. It’s a Lancaster Varmint Rifle you are told, perfect for hunting small game. You flip it to the side, then back again.

“I might let you take care of dinner tomorrow.”

You lift your gaze, meeting his dazzling blue. There is a mischievous tug at the corner of his mouth.

“Me?”

The tug curls into a grin. “Yeah, you. There’s plenty’a rabbits in these woods, and this’ the perfect weapon to pick’em off with.”

“I- eh,-”

The curl morphs into a full on, impish smirk. “Why not? You’ve already made yer first kill.”

You glance at the red mass mangled and discarded by Arthur. The rush of warmth searing through your cheeks is, although caused by the same person as before, a result of entirely different emotions.

“Asshole,” you mutter as you raise the rifle to shooting stance. The mangler lets out a scoff that you pretend not to hear. Mimicking what you have seen others do, you place the rear to your chest and lower your head to peer through the scope. Come to think of it, it had been more of a chuckle, really. A mocking one at that. Your dominant hand clasps the grip whilst the other keeps the rifle steady.

A scoff-chuckle. A scockle!

You hear a toot in the distance. The railroad must be near. You had completely forgotten about it, but now you remember, clear as day, the train whistle on that sunny day well over a decade ago.


	5. Treacherous Eyes

_“Your aim’s good, pumpkin. Hold steady'n when yer ready, you pull the trigger.”_

_“Will it be loud?”_

_“You’ll hear it, all right. But the hankies in your ears will muffle the noise.”_

_Your arms are inflexibly locked into a shooting stance, with your dominant hand sandwiched between the grip of your uncle’s gun and your other hand. With alternating thrill and trepidation, you work up courage to send off that first bullet. Will the handkerchiefs in your ears really muffle the bang? Will it hurt when the gun goes off? The thumping in your chest rises with every second of procrastination._

_One faint, but shrill toot later, you are no longer aiming at the empty canister your uncle had set up. You drop your arms. “Uncle Bry, can we wait till pa gets home? Please.”_

_“He ain’t comin’ back for a few hours, hun. You know how yer pa’s like when he’s at the farmer’s market. Now, what do you say we find that aim again?”_

_You do as he says. A moment later, a deafening roar fills the air simultaneously as the gun flies out of your hand, smacking you clear in the face before dropping to the ground._

_“It’s just the gun kickin’ back. You’re all right.”_

_“The gun kicks back?!” you yelp, clenching your nose._

_“Hey, what are you two doing out there? Why is <y/n> crying?”_

_Your father’s sharp tone makes your chest hurt. The look in his eyes is one that you have rarely seen. Ignoring his younger brother’s response, he rushes up to embrace you. When he speaks again, directly at you, his voice is warm. Gone is the anger in his eyes. He is the kind and loving father you have always known._

_“What happened, angel? Why are you crying?”_

_You hesitate to answer. You can easily sense the tension between the two brothers that are your closest family. Though you don’t understand why your father is angry, your tummy starts to ache as you realize it has to be because of you, and you conclude that your uncle is in trouble because you had dropped the gun. Your father cups your cheek, swiping the tears away with his thumb._

_“I-I tried to shoot with uncle Bry’s gun,” you sniffle, “but it- hurt my hand, I didn’t mean to drop it.”_

_“Angel, go inside, please.”_

_“But pa-“_

_He hunkers down, bringing his face level with yours. “Jefferson’s’ hogs got loose, so they had to close the market early. It was quite a sight.” He chuckles at your twitching brows. “I got you some of them sweets you like so much,” he smiles, though you can sense anger behind the mellow guise. “They’re waiting for you on the kitchen counter. Now, go inside and let me talk to uncle Bry, okay?”_

_You do as he says, though when inside, you remain by the entrance._

_“-thought I had made myself clear! I don’t want her shootin’ no gun! She is too young!”_

_“You always say she’s too young, or too small, or it’s not for girls. She ain’t no child anymore.”_

_You don’t catch your father’s response, but whatever it is, it does exactly the opposite of assuaging your uncle. “Listen, your idea of protecting her-”_

_“She is all I have, Bryan!”_

_There is a brief pause. You hear pacing. When the talking resumes, the voices are low, making it hard for you to catch all the words. You glue your ear to the door, “-won’t hear of it! After I lost my dear Nancy, I swore-…”_

_“…wanna keep her innocence, I get it…, It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, Alfred, and we ain’t gonna be around forever. She’s gotta learn-”_

_“…she won’t need-…, …moving to the city…, …study at-…, …marrying well-”_

_“…and how will you get the money to-…, We should at least-”_

_“OVER MY DEAD BODY!”_

~*~

“It’s gonna hurt if you hold it like that.”

Arthur’s low, raspy voice, notably different from the soft tenors of your father and his brother, stirs you out of the decade-old-plus memory, to a pair of arms encircling, but not embracing you. His gaze sweeps up and upon meeting your glare, he immediately steps back. If eyes could kill, yours would have certainly been far deadlier than the loaded Lancaster. A long-winded exhale is succeeded by a quick inhale, and you realize, you were holding your breath.

“Is it going to kick back when I fire?”

“All guns do. But if you place the butt right, it ain’t so bad.”

_Butt?_

“Show me.”

He hesitates. You lower your shoulders, followed by a diminutive nod. A silent, acquiesce consent to proximity. You just want this over with. He steps up, like, real close. Too close. You swallow, though your mouth is dry. His head at level with yours, he uses words and gestures to guide you into a shooting stance and shows you how to hold the rifle against your shoulder.

“Remember to breathe. Put your chin against the stock, like that.”

For every syllable spoken, his gruff voice has tingles shooting down your spine. At least you are shooting something. The brush of his fingers against yours as he adjusts your hold on the grip is enough to stir your heart into a frenzy. His other hand is gently resting against your back, devoid of ulterior motives or secret intentions, but nevertheless making your skin prickle. Through the blood pulsating in your ears, you hear Arthur’s voice, “And remember; always pull the trigger on empty lungs.”

You feel a warm tickle of air trailing the pulse line along your neck to your collarbone. A familiar heat is rushing to your cheeks. Empty lungs won’t be a problem.

You line up the target with the aid of the scope, breathe out, and pull the trigger. A roaring sound invades your ears, immediately followed by the rifle plunging straight into your shoulder, making you stumble backwards. Arthur, who hadn’t even flinched as the gun went off, reacts with lightning speed- like a librarian on top of a squeaky stepladder snatching out her hand to catch a dropped top-shelf book, he catches you in his arms.

“Why do they keep doing tha-?!”

Landing into Arthur’s arms effectively stifles the yells erupting from your throat. “Yer all rite, girl. C’mon, one more try.” It feels like those piercing green-blue eyes of his are staring directly into your soul. Yep, empty lungs is definitely not going to be a problem.

The cans are still atop of the boulder, all of them. You narrow your eyes into an angry scowl, eject the casing, and try again. You miss - again. And again. And again.

After five consecutive misses, your tired arms and aching shoulder sends the tip plummeting to the ground with a thump. You hold onto the blunt end while rubbing your sore shoulder with the other hand. A disgruntled huff escapes through gritted teeth. You should’ve hit one of them by now, even if by pure chance. The display of canisters however, in equal numbers as when Arthur had placed them, are a mocking reminder of your failed attempts. You eject the empty casing. Got the hang of _that_ at least!

“Let’s try s’mthin’ else.”

His hands returning to your shoulders distract you from the pain, once again twisting your upper body into shooting-stance. _Feet slightly apart, one foot in front of the other. Shoulders and chest like this._ “Ya gotta hold steady, and firm. Then you focus-“

“Steady, firm and focus. That is so helpful, Arthur. I would have never thought of that.”

His hands drop from your shoulders at your sardonic blurt. He refrains from a verbal response, but there is sear of indignation in his eyes, a blend of vexation and genuine hurt though mostly the latter that triggers within you a flicker of sincere regret. When he speaks again, his voice is low, almost unnervingly calm, silky and honeyed, but with a deep, throaty undertone bearing heed of annoyance, hurt and fading patience.

“What you wanna do is focus at the inhale, and then you shoot after the exhale.”

Lesson resumed, you tug your attention back to the weapon in your hands. Rear to shoulder, just as Arthur had shown, you glare down the scope.

“Okay now, calm and st- don’t snatch at the trigger. Pull it nice and slow.”

A deep inhale through widened nostrils, followed by a drawn-out, controlled exhale through pursed lips. _Don’t let the gunslinger distract you!_ _He’s not here._ In your head, you’re aiming at Nevans aiming at your father, and you have but one shot to save him - literally. With a focused mind and steady arms, you pull the trigger in-between breaths.

This time, it’s a point-blank hit. Number of cans down by one! You quickly eject the casing and try again. You score another hit. Then a miss followed by a hit.

“All right, that’s good.” The number of cans now down from seven to four, Arthur takes the rifle out of your hands. You are not sure if it’s his fingers brushing against yours or the wind that is making you shudder. Probably just the wind. It has gotten awful chilly all of a sudden.

“Now try the shooter.”

Your cattleman feels light as a feather compared to the Varmint. Well, not quite as a feather, but what are hyperboles for if not to get your point across, tongue-in-cheek. Resolved to keep the shooty-bang-bang in your hand this time, you wrap your dominant hand around the handle and close your other hand around the first. Feet a shoulder width apart, you place one foot in front of the other, raise your arms, drop your shoulders and lower your head.

“Now, keep yer arms straight. Roll yer elbows, like this.”

To Arthur’s instructions, you micro-adjust your flexed arms so that the high-blade front sight is both overlapping the target, and perfectly aligned in-between the rear-sight notch.

“That’s lookin’ good. Keep yer focus on the blade, not the can when ya cock the hammer.”

Sucking air into your lungs, you place your thumb on the hammer. _One-two-three-four_ clicks. Index flat on the trigger, you exhale to an internal speech of self-reassurance as you brace yourself for yet another inevitable encounter with Newton’s third law of motion. You got this!

And… _BANG!_

The ejected projectile sends the can flying off the rock. The recoil makes the gun twitch in your arms, but with this stance, in combination with a prepared mind and the rouse of adrenaline, you barely take notice. Of that, of Arthur’s praise, and of the sudden switch from light breeze to bone-chilling wind. You take aim again. _Tick-tick-tick-tick, pull_ _, BANG!_ Another can bites the dust. Then a third.

After three consecutive hits, you lower your arms to admire the decline of cans atop the boulder, down seven to one. Ah, sweet, sweet smell of success. And the not-so-sweet smell of gunpowder. You throw a glance at the gunslinger. You can’t help the smile spreading on your lips.

“That’s good. Real good.” The ardent nod that accompanies his praise has you flutter with fulfillment and your grin widens. “Take down the last one, and we’ll call it the night.”

The storm comes out of nowhere. Or had you both been so preoccupied with each other and the task at hand you’d failed to notice the warnings? The sudden rainfall saves the last canister from the strike of a bullet, and you follow a disgruntled, cussing Arthur to the mountain wall, where you take shelter inside a recess. The space is too small to fit you both without physical contact, and the sudden drench has you both intuitively seek out each other’s body heat.

You lean against his chest, like you had the night before. Raindrops falling from Arthur’s hat hit the nape of your neck make you flinch, and he intuitively pulls you closer, trapping your body and mind in an internal fight, which will leave behind only one survivor. It feels good. Too good. You sink into his arms, calmed by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Listening to his heart. Pounding so hard. Because of you? His breath, whisking over your face.

Are you betraying your father, for enjoying the warmth of the man who had assaulted him?

You lift your gaze, brazenly studying his face, feature by feature, as his own is focused elsewhere. The slightly crooked nose framed by protruding cheekbones. Numerous scars scattered about whose origins you can only guess. Squared jaw with a shadow of stubble save from that patch of bare skin right below the lips. Those dangerous lips. Feeling your eyes on him, his lashes sweep up and his eyes meet yours. A unique blend of emerald and aquamarine encircling dilated pupils, like a halo during a solar eclipse. Unbeknownst to you, your own pupils are equally dilated. _Treacherous eyes_ , revealing yours, – and his, innermost desires.

Are you imagining it, or are your heads now closer all of a sudden?

Later on, you’re not sure who initiated it. You, or him, or both. All you remember is that one moment you are staring at those plush lips of his and in the next, those lips brush against yours and there is a fleeting moment, where you lean into him. Or he leans into you. It’s hard to tell. What is easy enough to tell is that _you_ are the first to pull away, then you twist out his arms.

Arthur’s reaction you can only guess at, but the labored gasps makes it easy enough to do just that. A concoction of emotions falling under either abhorrence or desire course through you too strongly for denial, concomitantly relishing and despising the ghost of his lips on yours, and the taste of him still lingering at the tip of your tongue.

“Sorry, I-I…”

You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt at taming the raging throb between your legs, though the result is quite the opposite. You clench your fists, nails digging into the flesh of your palms so hard it hurts. You had parted, then puckered your lips and you wish- _no!_

You’re angry at yourself for wanting him. Angry at him for stopping. Angry at yourself for being angry at him for stopping. Most of all, you hate how a part of you almost wish he’d given in to his desires and had his way with you.

Yes, your treacherous body may still want him, but your mind and spirit are still sickened by what he did. Your body is wrong! And your heart? The bursting ache in your chest is answer enough. You get up and stomp back to camp. Concerns churning in your head greatly outweighs and overshadows those of rain, Broods and bears.

Darkness is settling fast, and with no moonlight or lit campfire, you barely find your way back. The rainfall doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon, and with the campfire extinguished and both the ground and Arthur’s blanket soaked it appears you will be sharing the tent tonight.

You enter the canvas soaked in rain. The man responsible for the shelter follows close behind, equally drenched. Your travel bag allows for the luxury of dry clothes, a luxury which Arthur does not have, and all he can do is take off his coat. The rolled-out bedroll serves as a makeshift partition as you change into a dry chemise, although Arthur has his face respectfully turned away the whole time.

You wrap your arms around your curled-up legs and rest your forehead on your knees, fighting back the tears lurking behind squeezed lids. You are really out here. Aside from concocting remedies from plants, you know next to nothing about survival, and you barely know how to handle a gun. Yet you are out here. In the midst of a desolate forest inhabited by bears, cougars and inbred savages, your sole companion being the man whom had beaten your father. A man you despise. A man whom, with the brush of a finger or a quick, stolen glance can still make your skin flush and your heart flutter.

You try not to cry. To not break down in front of him. Cold and exhausted from the erratic spin of a contrariety of emotions, like a broken compass in a desperate, vain search of north, you fail. Add to that a fast approaching knife still fresh in mind, and quiet sniffles turn into loud bawling. There is movement beside you, shuffles of fabric, then silence. Hesitation. You bury your head in the embrace of your arms to choke out the sound of stifled sobs. Another shuffle. Closer. A pat on your shoulder, then a squeeze. The warm pressure disappears, leaving behind a cold, hollow emptiness that makes the yearn in your chest crushingly intense, and you feel yourself falling to his chest.

You had expected him to move away. He doesn’t. Instead, he tentatively wraps an arm around you, gently rubbing your back in slow, circular motions but making no attempt at pulling you closer. You remain like this for a while, sulking against his chest and he lets you, but as soon as hurt is replaced by comfort, Arthur hovering over your father flashes before you.

Gratification immediately gives way for revolt. Palms flat to his chest, you forcefully push him away with a vehement, bitter grunt. Without a word, you crawl into the sleeping bag he’d given up, promptly turning your back to him, pretending not to hear what your heart is screaming. What you do hear is a languid sigh followed by shuffles of movement as Arthur lie down to sleep. It takes a while before either of you fall asleep.

You wake up in the middle of the night. Entombed in a cold and foreign world devoid of colors and faces, every ray of comforting, guiding light is a precious gift. It’s a world wholly made of sounds, smells, and the sensation of worn fabric against your skin as you hoist yourself up on your elbows.

It has stopped raining, and there is but barely enough moonlight slipping through the tarpaulin for you to make out the silhouette of Arthur’s back. He shivers in his sleep, like the rustling of leaves in a gentle breeze there he is lying directly on the ground with nothing but his own arms wrapped around him. Conversely, the incessant clapping of teeth accompanied by muffled groans of bone-chilling cold, the very sounds that’d haunted you perpetually through the night before, are easy to make out.

You feel a sting of guilt, slackening the bitter revulsion hitherto obscuring your discernment as you think back to _that_ day, when everything between you changed. He had kept his promise of leaving your father be. Your lifelong dream had come true thanks to his efforts, a dream you are now about to squander thanks to heedless imprudence owed to an obsessive, stubborn desire for righteousness and justice. Understandable, yes. All the same rash, foolish and reckless.

Yet, or perhaps therefore, Arthur had not only let you come with him, but he’d also kept you warm and fed even when at the expense of his own wellbeing, as is particularly evident now. In fact, had it not been for Arthur, this imprudence would have likely been your demise. And in return you have treated him like utter trash. With good reason, you tell yourself but – no! You have been wrong. Unjust. Partial, prejudiced, and blind. These are not the actions of a cruel, uncaring man. He has done everything right by you and you have not once tried to see his side of things, or to understand where he is coming from. To understand _him_. You hadn’t even said as much as a ‘thank you’.

The quivers are more noticeable now. You move. Slowly. Cautiously. Reluctantly. He’d given you warmth last night. It’s only fair you return the favor. When right next to him you shuffle the blanket to cover you both. The effect is almost instantaneous. He doesn’t wake up but a hushed, lengthy purr denotes a significant rise in comfort.

His vices and flaws may run deeper and carry more weight than those of the common man but you can no longer pretend he is the monster you have made him out to be. You curl up against him, the curves and angles of your body mirroring his. Gingerly you snake a hand in between his arm and chest and snuggle up to the nape of his neck, inhaling a scent of moss and rain.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” you whisper into his hair as you rub the back of his ice-cold hand with your thumb. Eventually, the trembles give way for deep, even breaths.

~*~

You wake up on your stomach, alone. Still in slumber you move your hand, searching for the warmth that had been there the night before. There is only but a faint smell of him, - and a strong smell of coffee. You push yourself up on your elbows. Ow! Your armpit is sore after last night’s shooting practice. You hear movement outside the tent and hurry to get dressed, opting for a pair of riding pants for convenience, grateful that he’d let you sleep in.

You step outside to Arthur brushing the mane of his steed, with his back to you.

“Good morning.”

You get no reply. No turn of head. He is definitely within hearing range. You are sure he’s lost in thought and therefore had not heard you, - or is he ignoring you on purpose?

“Do you need any help w-”

“You think I’m some kind’a toy to be played with 'cause of what I did to yer pa?” He tuns to look at you. His mouth is stern. Cold, angry. “Maybe I deserve it, I don’t know. But I want you to stop.”

The last shred of sleep is gone in an instant. “What are you talking about?”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about. You lean against me, then you push me away. You do it again. You kiss-”

The cheeks of the man who has your own burning with shame shows a similar change of complexion, though out of different reasons entirely. He lowers his head, hiding the searing hurt in his eyes with the brim of his hat, and resumes brushing the mount. His face sideways, more away from you than facing you, he continues, “I get that you hate me. I deserve nothing less. I’ll do what I can to catch the feller who killed yer pa so please, stop it. Stop pretending I mean something to you, only to...”

The last sentence is so low, you barely hear it. But you do hear the brittle crack of his voice as it fades. His heart is closed in complete and utter conviction that it had all been a petty taunt on your end, a punishment for what he’d made you suffer. He must’ve woken up with your arm around him, and come to this erroneous, but understandable conclusion after you twice last night sought his warmth and comfort, igniting within him a flicker of hope brusquely smothered when you coldly spurned him away as soon as he had satisfied those needs.

Last night, however, the effort at reconciliation had been genuine on your end. You’d made a sincere promise to be kinder, maybe even dare to hope that- but alas! any attempt at clarification is futile and will likely make it worse. As far as Arthur is concerned, you still and always will see him as the man who did the unthinkable, unforgiveable, unrepentable… and granted, for the longest of time, you had. Your teeth dig into the soft flesh of your bottom lip as you come to realize nothing can ever mend that which has passed.

“Fine,” you say, forcing the words out. Forcing your voice to hold firm. “I will.”

It is for the best, you convince yourself. Too many unkind words have been spoken, and actions of unjust done on behalf of both, neither of which can be undone. He adjusts his headwear to what looks identical to what it was before, then he goes to take down the tent, making a gesture to what is a breakfast of sorts as he whisks past you, leaving behind a whiff of moss and rain.

“Eat up,” he grumbles, his voice hoarse. More so than usual. “We’ll leave as soon as I’m done here.”


	6. Stubborn, Unruly Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired from something that's happened to me when roaming Roanoke Valley that made me sad. So I went ahead and made it even more sad.
> 
> Content warning in the end notes to void spoilers.

You wash down the last mouthful with lukewarm coffee and a swig from the breakfast-maker’s canteen. Your bottom lip stings. Gliding your tongue over the plump flesh, you can faintly discern the metallic taste of blood, but a swipe of your finger shows only clear saliva.

What follows is nearly two hours on horseback in quietude. Neither of you are willing to be the first to speak, or even know what to say and tension is running high. You have a swig of water. To take your mind off the stamping of hooves that is not from your horse and the occasional sweet-talk directed at said odd-toed ungulate, you put your botany skills to the test by naming the various greeneries you pass by on your way. The leaves are picturesquely peppered with tiny dewdrops, in each bead a miniature copy of the morning sun.

The chill breeze helps clear your mind. You listen to the chirps of birds and chirrs of insects and try to guess the species. Nonetheless, it takes but a few minutes for your mouth to dry up like the New Austin desert, – again. You fall for the temptation of another swig. And another. And yet another. This keeps up until the inescapable consequence of continuous fluid intake can be felt at the pit of your stomach. The niggling shake of horseback-travel does you no favors either. Refusing to be the one to fold the silence game you suffer for as long as you can bear while distracting yourself with the flora-and-fauna guessing game, however, there are more pressing matters than silence right now. Like the press against the walls of your bladder.

“Arthur?”

There is no response. You give him a side-glare with tapered eyelids. You know he heard you. Is he still purposely ignoring you, or does he simply not deem a mere call of his name as worthy a response, thus waiting for you to relay what’s on your mind?

“Arthur!” you try again, a little louder this time.

“What?” he grunts, not steering his eyes off the road.

“Can we take a break?”

“Later. We need to reach Brandywine Drop before noon.”

“What does this Brandywine Drop look like, anyhow? Is it a cliff?”

“No, well yes. It’s a waterfall. Not as wide as Cumberland Falls, but more than two times as high.”

You imagine a thunderous waterfall, complete with the respective noise. _Great._ Now you _really_ need to go.

“We can spare five minutes, can’t we?”

The pitch of your tone is about two octaves higher than what it should be, prompting Arthur to pull the reins. The Warmblood comes to an abrupt halt. You do the same with your mount.

“Whatfor?”

He glares at you under the brim of his hat with an impatience that complements the annoyance in his voice. No such thing as privacy when travelling in the wild, you suppose.

“I- um, got to go.”

Impatience shifts to bewilderment thought the frown of vexation remains. Your cheeks burn. “Erm, you know, _go_.”

Another second of bewilderment, then realization dawns. “Why didn’t'cha go back at the camp?”

“I didn’t have to then. Besides, you were in such a hurry, I didn’t have time to think about it.”

“I was in a hurry ‘cause I want to catch the damn feller- _err_ , fine! But make it quick.”

“I see no reason to drag it out,” you bite back, dismounting your steed.

As you skip through the shrubbery, a penetrating desire for distance collides with an equally intense, but contrary desire to stay close to Arthur in case of trouble, from beast or from man. Confident you are out of ear- and eyesight, you pull down your trousers and squat into the leaves of a thick bush. Despite the bursting pressure in your tummy, it takes a few seconds before you are relaxed enough for a stream to flow. Your attention is at a constant shift from left to right. Every sound and every movement is a potential forewarning of danger, leaving you alert and anxious of every snap of twig and rustle of leaves.

 _There._ Finished!

No, there’s still more. Since when did your bladder turn into a cornucopia for urine?

A rustle! In the undergrowth to your left. Too centered to be the wind. Too loud for a rodent or rabbit. The stream from your body stops, but you do no rise, instead staying still. Listening.

Nothing.

Had it perhaps been your imagination?

A sudden movement! More ruffling and shuffling to your left. A doe jumps out and skits straight past you. You fall backwards with a yelp, which introduces your rear to a sudden, intimate acquaintance with a cluster of moist leaves.

You rise to your feet and pull up your trousers, wet from what you hope is just dew, cursing your own jitteriness, though self-reprimand soon enough turns to anxiety as the next line of thought strikes. In the midst of fastening your belt, your hands freeze.

Something must’ve startled it. Or, someone.

_Oh, don’t be silly. It’s just a deer being a deer._

Buckle fastened.

That’s when you hear it. A thunderous roar, though not the kind birthed by mother nature. Oh no, the origin of this rumble you know all too well, and it is positively human. Another bang cuts through the air. You run in the direction from whence you came, and bump into an armed Arthur on your way.

“Arthur, I heard gunshots-”

“Stay back!” he barks. The order is accentuated by a hand flat to your shoulder.

“Is it the Mur-”

“I ain’t got time. Go to the horses, _now_.”

Before you can speak another word, he is already halfway up the hill. Gunshots continue splitting your eardrums, followed by human voices. Human _screams_.

You don’t see the mounts and scurry behind a shrub. Arthur takes cover behind a fallen tree, where he perfunctory lines up the rifle. It costs him nothing to set up that perfect aim, firing. _Killing._ Your heart is pounding, not for your own safety but for Arthur’s as he swaps his rifle for a handheld, moves out of cover, and disappears out of sight, bringing forth yells and expelled projectiles.

 _It’s going to be all right,_ you tell yourself. He is used to being in the midst of guns blazing. He can take care of himself. Like yesterday, he is killing his opponents one by one, as is evident by the decrease of screams and gunshots, not by intensity but by numbers. The confrontation lasts no more than a couple of minutes, if even that, but it feels insufferable longer.

It is now eerily quiet. You hear Arthur’s voice calling your name. Heading in its direction, you find him looting a dead Murfree. You hear a squeal. A female voice, still clinging onto life. Arthur catches your arm. _Careful._

He goes first, with you tripping behind. On top of a small hill, there is a clearing. The first in a series of horrendous observations is a half-plundered stagecoach and the dead horses afront. Then you notice the items scattered about. You spin left and right in search for the woman whose yelps you can still hear. It’s Arthur who finds her. She is around your age. Maybe a little older. What had been a plain, but lovely blue dress is now sullied by dirt and blood from the three gunshot wounds to her chest and abdomen. You crouch beside her and intuitively grab her hand. Her eyes are wide open, and she is trying to speak, but blood filling up her lungs leaves nothing but incomprehensible gurgles to be heard.

“Thinkin’ this was her husband.”

You sit by her side, holding onto her hand as her eyes go from dread to dead. You close her lids and place her hands on her stomach, your own resting over hers as you grieve for this stranger, whose life was cut short.

A bump against your palm makes you flinch. Placing your hand flat on her stomach, you feel a series of faint, but rapidly succeeding thumps. It is not until now you realize how round her tummy is. Your skin goes clammy and cold shivers run down your spine.

“Arthur!”

He immediately comes to your side. “S’mthing wrong?”

“I think she’s… with child,” you whisper. There has been no thump against your hand for over a minute. The gunshot wounds has stopped bleeding. “Was… with child.”

You trace the round shape. Most likely at the beginning of the third trimester, though it’s hard to tell from belly size alone.

“Damn inbred, persistent swines. Thought I'd killed’em all last year.”

Your tears speak the language of grief as your voice fails. You feel so helpless. Mourning a man and a woman, whose names you do not know, bereft of holding their baby in their arms, and depraved of years of cuddles, lullabies and goodnight kisses. A lifetime together, as family, stolen from them.

A memory from your childhood resurface, of a loss buried deep in the darkest corner of your mind. Grief is yet again running its course as raging as it had been _that_ day, stirring up a pain as real and palpable as the marks in your skin as you bite down on your hand to quench your sobs.

You rise to Arthur’s whistle. He calms the horses and goes to pocket valuables, assorted food items and ammunition in the saddlebags. Sensing your idleness, he looks at you, catching the disillusionment in your face.

“They ain’t gonna need it. But we are.”

And he is right. These people are dead. You and Arthur are still alive – and scarce of resources as Arthur had not anticipated company and you had packed for a weekend stay at the Bastille rather than the Roanoke wilds. You join in the hunt for supplies, taking only what you must. To avoid dwelling on the tragedy splayed out at your feet, your body moves deficient of though, like one of Professor Bell's newfangled, electricity-driven automations at that science fair last month.

It works until your hand touches something soft and cuddly. A stuffed toy cat, it too stained by blood and soil, around its neck a baby blue ribbon with a small, rectangular piece of paper attached.

It’s an Ithaca Kitty. Introduced to the American people at the World's Columbian Exposition in ’93, according to the note around its neck. You've seen them on display in windows at big-ticket toy stores in Saint Denis. You flip the paper.

_To your firstborn..._

“We should bury them.”

“We ain’t got time, –”

You squeeze the bundle in your hands, its ribbon waving in the breeze.

“Look, if we’re gonna make it to Brandywine Drop today we need to leave. Now. This feller we’re hu- _I’m_ huntin’, he might be long gone in the morning.”

_He might be long gone already._

You lower your head and close your eyes. The _caw-caw_ of the crows circling atop your heads spears your every thought. Scavengers, waiting for you to retreat so they and other creatures feasting on the flesh of the dead can glutton in fresh, human meat. Ripping their bodies, – and dignity, to shreds.

There had been crows by your father's body when he was found.

“We can’t just leave them like this.” Not waiting for a reply, you march over to the travellers’ coach and start rummaging through the pile gathered by the Murfree corpse by your feet. Finding what you’re searching for, you make your way to a patch near a copse of conifers and start digging.

After a short, though somewhat heated dispute with the outlaw on who does what, he assumes ownership of the shovel and you use the pickaxe to soften up the soil. It takes the remainder of the day to dig a grave large enough to fit them both, but at last their bodies lie next to each other, arms on their chest with one hand resting atop the other, together in death as in life – “You took their wedding rings _?!_ ”

There is a slight hesitation before he answers. “They ain’t gonna n-”

“Arthur, no.” Your voice quivery and frail, you vigorously shake your head, your vision so blurred you see but a silhouette of him against the evening sky. “N-not the wedding rings. Please.”

With a lengthy, disgruntled exhale he puts the golden halos back onto their proper place. You hand him the plush kitty, which he places between the deceased.

You help him shuffle back the earth, at first ignoring his bid that you should rest. After the third reiteration you retort with brittle strain that you’d rather be doing something than to sit idle waiting for him to finish. Though nearly a fortnight of sleep deprivation and inconsistent meals, more often than not lacking in variety, volume or nutrition, does not go unpunished. Not before long, your body goes weak and you sink onto your knees. Falling to your elbows. Hands flat against the earth. Head drooping –

You smell conifers.

A pair of strong arms pull you up and directs you to a nearby log, followed by a resolute command to stay and rest until he is done.

“Damn stubborn, unruly woman.”

“I heard that!”

He stops, he rolls his eyes you are sure, he walks. As soon as the dizziness has faded you rise, arms to the side to steady your poise. Your legs are still weak, but your knees can take your weight and you don’t feel lightheaded anymore. Arthur is still shuffling soil with his back to you. You toddle on tottering legs and wavering arms with all the grace and perfect balance like a two-year-old to gather twigs about one foot in length. With handkerchiefs from the deceased’s luggage you tie two-and-two twigs together, perpendicular to one another.

Arthur watches you in silence as you push into the ground three hand-made crosses, two larger and a third, smaller cross in between the other two. You sink to your knees and rest your chin on the back of your hand, which again rests on your knee. You had expected Arthur to tell you to get moving, but to your surprise he kneels besides you, takes off his hat and lowers his head, in his eyes a tacit tale of lament, silently speaking of loss. The grief painted on his face is much too profound to pertain to strangers alone.

Three crosses. An unnamed grave. The final resting place of three unfortunate souls, whose fate will likely forever remain a mystery to the rest of the world. Letters in their bags suggest they were to settle down amongst relatives somewhere in Ambarino, though the papers are much too torn to say for sure. Nor are there any names or other means of identification to be found anywhere.

“Why did they enter these woods unprotected?” you ask, your voice shrill. “Didn’t they know how dangerous it is?”

“City folks tend to underestimate the dangers up here,” he reasons. You are about to further express your disbelief when you are reminded of your own imprudence.

“If only we had come sooner.”

“If he had, we’d be dead too. This was an ambush. They probably followed’em for a while before jumping’em. Poor folks never had a chance.”

Somehow you doubt that from what you’ve seen of his proficiency with various firearms and his cool-headedness in perilous situations. Then again, by _we_ he likely just meant _you_.

Arthur shifts his weight. Time to go. You trail behind him. Chin to shoulder, you throw a final glance at the crosses, wondering if the one who had penned the letters you found would ever learn of the recipient’s fate, unwilling to admit you already know.

Camp is set up near the Kamassa riverbank. Neither of you speak save from the mandatory division of chores, preoccupied by, or perhaps, pretending to be distracted by your tasks at hand and later, your sorry excuse for dinner. Despite your famish, each mouthful, as dry and crumbly as if you'd been chewing on tree bark, swells in your mouth. After the third swallow you put away the fish-on-a-stick. It’s more likely to come back up than to stay down anyways.

You sink your head into your hands, massaging your temples and your forehead, hoping Arthur will leave you alone. He does, as is obvious by the shuffling of fabric as he rises from his spot by the campfire, followed by fading footsteps and whiffs of tobacco. _Great._ Just as well. You wanted to be left alone anyways, or so you tell yourself.

A nudge at your side and Arthur softly speaking your name prompts a raise of head to a steel beaker filled with – rabbit droppings?

“Y'need to eat.”

It takes you a blink of an eye to realize it’s an assortment of berries. You accept by instinct and pick one up, rolling it between your fingers. A wintergreen berry. A rather common find up here, even this early in the year. You spot blackberries as well, though far less in numbers.

“There wasn’t much to pick from due to the season. I tried’a find ya some raspberries but they weren’t ripe yet.”

A thousand thanks get stuck in your throat. You stuff your mouth with the succulent treats, gesturing at your side. There is hesitance in his face, as if he suspects a ruse, or a test.

“You want to sit?”

An old log beats a tattered blanket on cold ground, and he accepts, placing himself as far away from you as possible. You eat in silence, one savory, succulent berry at a time, with watchful eyes trained at fleeting glimmers in the dark. Nocturnal hunters, whose eyes are reflected by the fire, watching, lurking, stalking, followed by faint rustles as they move through the underbrush, circling the camp. Out of fear, curiosity or with a more sinister thought in mind you do not know. But as long as the fire is crisply burning, they would not dare to approach. And even if they were, they would be no contenders for the weapons and skills of the man beside you.

In the discretion of the night you have the audacity to dare a few, stolen glances at the feller with the terrifying, but admirable skills. His back is hunched, and his arms are resting on his knees, his sight gazelessly locked onto the flickering flames, seeing but not observing, his mind someplace else. Or, with someone else.

The wooden bench you are sharing, courtesy of mother nature herself, seems far too small for his large build. In the dim, orange light you notice the trace of a stubble, and you are once again reminded of that day, when you first met. With all the relaxed atmosphere a snug bath house can provide, polite, but detached courtesies had gradually turned into genuine compliments and warm smiles, and two strangers had become acquainted.

The second encounter is even more etched in your mind. Words had been spoken in confidence and in trust. There’d been flirting, from your end both the giggly and seductive kind, leading to an unprompted though no less tender moment of intimacy, followed by a shattering goodbye where your heart ached to meet him again, and meeting him again you had. In the worst way imaginable.

Now it all feels like dreams from a past life. That near instantaneous, magnetic attraction between you two, once so sweet now merely exists as a remembrance of unsung hope for that which will never be and never truly was. You place the empty mug on the ground and turn away, blinking your eyes. Surely, it’s because of the smoke.

You trail with your gaze the dim coils snaking their way through the cool air. The fizzing and crackling of burning wood fills the void left behind by what remains unspoken. You wonder if the two lovers you’d helped bury today had died with unspoken words in their hearts.

“Earlier, by the graves,” your voice is weak, shy, as if merely breaking the silence is taboo. “You had that look… were you thinking of someone?”

His hand comes up to scratch his jaw, falling to his lap when reaching the scar on his chin. Just as you are convinced he will answer the question with silence, he starts speaking in a low and flat voice, deflated, as if years of grief has dried up the pain there once was, until there is nothing left but hollow emptiness, which is no less agonizing in its own right.

“My son. And his momma.”

Your stomach tightens. He leans to the side, glancing at the underside of his boots, talking whilst tapping his foot against the ground to rid his soles of pebbles and mud.

“They was killed in a robbery, like yer pa. Seeing the three crosses made me think I should'a died with’em. That the world would've been a better place without me in it.”

The words, which hits you so strongly, come out through chapped lips, monotonous and dull. Your eyes start to burn again, and it has nothing to do with smoke. You are overwhelmed by an urge to dispute his last statement. To make him see his self-worth. Knowing all too well he would not believe a word. What could you possibly tell him that, considering his words to you earlier today, will not sound like a filthy lie?

You suppress the impulse to reach out for his hand, a desire augmented by the flicker of yearn in his eyes that he so wished you had not seen. Though it is a level of intimacy your relationship is not ready for, keeping your hand still proves harder than expected.

“Momma died when giving birth to my sister,” you say eventually, staring into the flames but turning your head when you feel his gaze on you. Mesmerizing teal eyes meet yours, sympathetic yet reserved. Guarded.

“They both died,” you add quietly.

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah.” It is but a mere whisper. “I was too little to understand much. Pa and my uncle Bry, his brother, they raised me.”

You curl, then flex your fingers of the hand resting on your thigh, closest to him. His battles, internal and external, show on his face, creased and furrowed, a visual narration telling the tale of a harsh life filled with concern, doubt, and lament, giving rise to a perpetual sadness in his eyes that you’re only now noticing for the first time – in the face of this man who has suffered the greatest of loss. _Undeservingly harsh_ you think, wishing you could bring a smile to his sorrowful mien.

You scoot impermeably closer. Your hand twitch. Leaving your lap. A sharp intake of air…

“We ought to get some sleep.”

He stands upright, stretching his back with an exaggerated, rearward roll of his shoulders that is rather operatic. Your hand falls to your lap, and you cannot ignore the sting of disappointment flaring through your chest.

He is guarding his heart. From you.

Arthur offers you his tent, like he had yesterday though unlike yesterday, he settles outside at the opposite side of the campfire, as had been the plan the night before. Half an hour later, sleep is still hopelessly far away. Wrapped in a smothering blanket of perpetual darkness, save from the faint illumination of the fire outside, visible as a dancing light on the canvas wall, you lie alone, choked by the miserable musings churning in your head, impossible to chase away. From Arthur’s cold shoulder to fading thumps against your palm and three lonely crosses marking an unnamed grave in the midst of Roanoke Ridge, and now, longing for the warmth of a man you’re still not quite willing to admit you no longer hate.

You toss and you turn, listening to the faint snores from said man.

 _Hate?_ That’s a strong word.

You think of everything that’s happened since that day in Millie’s garden, a telegram in your hand marked _emergency delivery,_ and how it had led you to Arthur. You think of the night in Annesburg, and how, thanks to his care, you can remember it with appreciation as it is the only day since your father’s passing you had been well rested and with a full stomach.

Though somewhat unwillingly admitted, he no longer wrecks repugnance in your heart. He has, to you, been nothing but respectful, and – in his own way, caring. Resent has given way for something you never imagined you’d feel for Arthur Morgan again and that is gratitude – for helping and protecting you yes, but also for tolerating and forgiving your impertinent manners and acrimony towards him that night and early morning, and your borderline shrewish defiance today. You think about the duality of his nature; ruthless yet compassionate, abrasive and yet so gentle. There is even a desire to go back – to when it still felt like it was possible to mend, to fix… somehow, even if _that_ had been the last thing on your mind then. But now, whatever could have been is now lost forever.

Peeping once again past the veil of prejudice, anger, and hurt – no, you certainly do not hate him. Indeed, you are no longer sure you ever truly did. Rage, betrayal, confusion, shame, revolt, bitterness, oh yes. There is no shortage of emotional turmoil pertaining to this alluring stranger who had so effortlessly stolen, then smothered your heart. But hate? No.

After this retrospective glance at your relationship to this outlaw, its ups, downs and contrarieties, you are left wondering, longing to know whether his thoughts and feelings for you, in particular, his sentiments expressed this morning which had gloomed your spirit so, still holds true. You remember your hand wrapped around a shivering Arthur, his hair tickling your nose as you nuzzled the nape of his neck. The last on your mind before falling asleep, a fleeting thought daring to surface in the evanescence of fading into the land of dreams, is that of reaching beyond the canvas and across the camp site. Pulling him inside the tent. Close to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: the death of two civillians at the hands of the Murfree Broods, including a pregnant woman.


	7. Broken Angel

“No _ooo_! No, no, no, _no_.”

On a moss-grown, slippery ledge behind the tallest waterfall in the Midwest, where Roanoke Ridge meets Roanoke Valley, you cry out your pain hunched over a wrecked leather suitcase that belongs… _belonged_ to your father. A broken figurine in one hand, a smudged cloth in the other, once white as snow. Your fathers handkerchief, with his initials embroidered. The figurine, a wingless angel carved out of oak. A hand-made gift you were to receive on the day of his scheduled arrival in Saint Denis.

You run your thumb over the wooden surface, exploring and acquainting every bump and dint. The dress is of the same design and pattern as your favorite dress when you were little. The wispy fringe and French-braided pigtails. The book in her arm. You, his little angel, some sixteen years ago.

The overall level of detail. It must’ve taken him so long.

You rummage through sliced-up bags, purses, and satchels, soiled garments, toiletries, various trinkets and knick-knacks. Patting the cold, wet ground with flat palms, searching and searching with teary eyes and trembling fingers, until you find one of the wing pieces. The other remains lost despite your best effort, making sure this little angel remains broken forever. You put the found piece where it belongs, a silly and futile thing to do as you have no means of gluing it in place.

Behind the thunderous waterfall you drown in memories inescapably flooding your mind. Memories that might someday put a smile to your face, but now, all they do is give you pain.

Why does it hurt so much, to lose a loved one? Perhaps it is because even though the person is dead, the love you feel for them is still very much alive. The comfort which their presence used to bring is forever gone. Their voice can no longer give you solace, and you will never again feel the heartening warmth of their embrace. All that is left is their name and time on this Earth chiseled in stone and a heart filled with love that has nowhere to go.

The heavy footsteps that has been in the background, sometimes close, sometimes faint, now draws near. You hear the squish-squish of boots against moss as Arthur squats next to you.

“I miss- I miss,” you sniffle through hitched breaths, “I miss him. So much.”

You long for your father’s arms around you. Rocking you back and forth as he tells you that this too shall pass. Assuring you in that calming, mellow tone of his that everything will be okay in the end.

“I never got to say goodbye. He just- taken from me.”

He sits by your side in silence. A minute? Five? You wish he would say something, anything. Perhaps he deems it not his place to speak at all of your father, whom he once beat half senseless. Yet, you wish he would.

“We should – I’m sorry, <y/n> but there ain’t anythin’ here.”

“If you’d known h-he was my pa, would-would y-you-”

You ponder how to voice the question. You wonder if you can at all. When you hear a lengthy, deflated sigh, you know for sure.

“C’mon, let’s go.”

You bring with you the mementos of your father but leaving behind the rest of his belongings with a reluctant heart. All of costly value is gone, and what remains is either shredded beyond recognition or caked in what is snot and dirt at best.

You fall behind. Not only because a heavy chest makes for slow, straggling steps, but also because the path leading outside is narrow and slippery, with the occasional drop in the terrain. When you finally have your feet on steady ground, the manhunter has disappeared from your view.

There are traces of a recent camp site at the ledge overlooking the river down below. You swirl your foot in a pile of charred wood where the campfire had been, lifting your eyes to the magnificent view. It’s the perfect place to spot and fend off potential intruders, which, if the many bullet casings strewn about are to be an indication of, had gone from _potential_ to very real indeed.

“There’s a body over here,” you hear behind you. “It ain’t one of the Broods. Could be one of Nevans’ f- hey, you don’t have to come- maybe you should stay over- he ain’t too pretty-lookin’, this feller.”

Neither the sight nor the smell is anything close to pleasant. You cover your nose and mouth with your arm. The fly-infested corpse is splayed against a rock you presume served as cover during the shootout which had claimed his life. The large number of casings, together with the gunshots to the chest and abdomen, leaves no doubt as to the cause of death.

“He was running with two fellers, ain’t that right?”

You nod. “Sheriff said two men helped him break out of his prison cell in Valentine,” you mumble into your elbow. “You think this is one of them?”

“Think so.” The bounty hunter glances over the boulder. “Whoever they was shootin’ at was hiding over there,” he concludes, pointing at a copse of trees straight ahead.

He too has covered his nose and mouth, with the bandana always around his neck, a revolver in his hand in case of trouble. The sight, and its reminder of how he used to make his living, perhaps still do even if just on the rare occasion, brings a cold shiver to your spine.

He turns to you, meeting your eye. There is a moment of pounding hearts, where you stare at each other in breathless silence. An ephemeral whisper of raw, undisguised fear in your gaze brings forth a seething hurt in his. As your eyes go wide, his glide away in shame. The axiom _outlaws for life_ echoes in his head, like the deafening reverberations of a church bell that won’t stop ringing. Haunting him, wherever he goes. Bringing to mind his countless, heinous sins. Reminding him of what he will always be to the world, and to you. A degenerate, depraved criminal. A bully and a thief. A murderer. He pulls at the neckerchief, exposing his face, and makes his way over to the grove.

There are more bodies behind blocks of stone amongst the trees, both human and horse, that neither of you had seen when you arrived as you came from the other side of the river. Arthur is busy searching the area behind you, which mostly involves looting bullet-ridden corpses, while you stay clear of the sight and smell of death. You’ve had your share of _that_ to last you a lifetime.

“Looks like a Murfree Brood revenge attack. Too bad they didn’t finish the job for us.”

Dents in some of the tree trunks appear to stem from projectiles. You dig your finger into one of the bullet marks, which leaves behind a sticky substance on the tip of your finger. Resin. Partially dried. This is recent.

Down by the river, Arthur finds fresh footprints no more than a day old. As there are no recent horse tracks other than the ones from you and your travel companion, the latter assumes the footprints owner’s horse to be one of the four-legged casualties of the unpremeditated skirmish.

“If this’ our feller, he’s alone, got no horse and is low on supplies. Ammunition too, I guess. My gut tells me he ain’t made it far.” Rising to his feet, he peers into the woodland on the other side of the river. “There’s an abandoned trading post nearby, up that hill. It’s a good place to start lookin’.”

“That’s a big _if_.”

The bounty hunter’s lips skew into an unamused, cooked grin, and you find yourself at the receiving end of a vexed side-glare. “What you suggest we do, huh?” he mock-asks in an overbearing tone laced with scorn. “Any clever ideas on trackin’ bounties, Miss _I-ain’t-slept-a-wink-without-a-roof-over-my-head-before_?”

With a downward glare he holds your eye to a deliberate pause, perfectly timed for the contemptuous riposte to rip through your chest like crevasses in a glacier, without allowing for rejoinders. “We could always give up. I’d be happy to give you a ride back to the nearest town or better yet, back to Saint Denis.”

 _I’ll squeeze every last cent outta you…_ You clench the figurine still in your hand, cocooned in your father’s handkerchief together with that one broken wing piece _…even if I have to break every damn bone in yer body._

“Yeah, thought so.”

Your face is deadpan blank. A deceivingly featureless guise that conceals bitter pain, like that thin layer of fresh snow above crevasse-ridden glaciers, hiding the cracks underneath.

_Your father’s frantic pleas. A pained cry as a fist lands on his face. Blood-smeared teeth and eyes wide with fear. Because of you. All because of you…_

Your steeds answer Arthur’s whistle with keen whinnies, the horses’ way of communicating readiness and willingness to serve. You grab the bridle and give your mare a pat. Looming tears are making your throat ache and your eyes burn, an emotional response whose trigger is different though somewhat related to the one prompting the meltdown behind the waterfall.

 _The fist unclenching, streaks of blood trickling down flexing fingers. The same fingers that-that had-_ You let go of the reins and pocket the tucked-up cloth in the saddlebag.

“Arthur?” You touch his arm. “If you had-” Bridle in hand, he stiffens to the touch of your hand. You squeeze his arm lightly, repeating his name. “It was something you were ordered to do, right? Had you known the debtor was my pa, would you still ha-have b… what you did?”

“What difference does it make?” he grumbles, facing the saddle. “I still beat up some poor feller, didn’t I?”

_All the difference in the world._

You don’t say it. A churning ache at the pit of your stomach, set in motion by that last sentence, traps the words in your throat. Your silence has him turn. His eyes tacitly repeat the question.

_Would you think better of me if I say no? I still beat up someone’s pa, someone’s son, someone’s husband, someone’s brother, someone’s…_

Lord knows he’s beaten up his share of them.

“It doesn’t,” you speak through a clenched jaw. “Beating up poor, desperate folks who’s done no one any harm in their life. It’s awful, reprehensible and dishonorable.”

You accentuate the vilification of the manhunter by pushing his chest or, you try to. Arthur snatches your arm mid-air. “I told you to stop that,” he snarls, trapping your gaze with a piercing stare as clear and cold as the river floating by.

Every introspective thought and ensuing recognition after more than two days’ worth of soul-searching contemplation is now laid dead, replaced by gut-churning revolt. You twist free, because he lets you, this time accepting your palms to his chest as you, blinded by bitter rage, scream to his face what can never be taken back.

“I HATE YOU!”

For all the muscle power you put into the physical side of your outburst, you don’t move him for the length a pin’s head. Your words, however, fall to his heart like a mallet to china.

He climbs into the saddle without another word. You swipe your palm over your cheeks, an action that has become all too repetitive as of late, bestriding your own steed.

You venture into the backwoods a steady horse length distance behind the tracker. The silence is agonizing; an incessant torment for heart, mind and spirit, nurtured by a screaming void, which can only be filled by a few, very specific words aching to be heard yet are impossible to speak.

Not even half an hour later, a run-down building appears amidst the trees. Arthur descending and hitching his mount you take as a sign that you have arrived, and you do the same.

A sign with BRANDYWINE DROP STATION in faded letters and the adjacent railroad leaves no doubt as to the nature of the building. Barrels, sacks, and crates are stacked alongside walls overgrown with vines. They all appear to be empty and decaying. Arthur gestures for you to wait and steps onto the porch where he stealthily sneaks up to the doorless entrance, gun cocked and ready. You wonder how such a big man can move so quietly.

“Is he-”

His answer is an unspoken scold. You repeat your question with a whisper.

He shakes his head and holsters his gun. You circle a pole with dangling ropes and step onto the portico as Arthur marches past you, his chin low. A large sign on the roof reads: BRA-----DROP –EIGHT STATION. Another sign still clinging to the wall next to the entrance whose door has fallen off informs that they used to sell cigars, tobacco and general goods. Around the corner is an equally ramshackled wagon.

The walls are missing almost as many planks as are still left, and the ones that remain are perforated by bullet holes. A silent tale of a once violent encounter which outcome you can only guess. You turn, and peer down the railroad on either side. To your right you see a water tower in the distance. Behind it, a spherical-shaped structure on some kind of scaffold-ish contraption.

“I guess trains don’t pass through here very often, eh?”

The question is a musing spoken out loud, so you had not expected a response. You move across the porch with a squinting eye. That is definitely a building over there, behind that strange structure.

“Maybe we can check that place over there once you’re done brushing the horses.”

That too is met with silence.

“You been up here often?”

“Yeah.”

Well, this is looking out to be a fun day.

You step around the corner and throw a quick glance down the road where you’d arrived before letting the eye wander the treetops and the clear-blue sky. In the distance you see a clearing that has to be Roanoke Valley. The morning fog has lifted, the sun is shining, and birds are singing. All is peaceful and quiet.

A beautiful view on a beautiful day you are powerless to enjoy. An unharmonious contrariety to the heaviness in your chest antagonizing all that is beautiful and good. Even the loveliest a melody is an abomination to the ear when played on an untuned piano.

“I’m… gonna have a look inside.”

No answer.

The physical barrier between you and Arthur puts you at a momentary ease, as keeping him within the peek of an eye brings with it the comforting reassurance of a nearby safeguard.

The inside is in even more dilapidated than the outside. Here too the walls are littered with bullet holes, most of them near windows and the far end walls. Shelves and cabinets are empty. Looted by vagabonds, fugitives, and travelers over the years. A pile of smudged, old blankets in the opposite corner of the doorway gives hint to the occasional, overnight occupant, despite the derelict state of the building offering little to no shelter from wind and rain. Beer and whiskey bottles lie haphazardly strewn about, at and around the makeshift bed, and an oil lamp has fallen over.

Outside, Arthur is scribbling in a leather-bound notebook. The sight catches your eye. He certainly never struck you as the type to keep a journal, let alone writing his memoirs. You had, based on your early conversations and the life he’s led, assumed he did not know how to read or write, or at least not well. When he’d looked at Nevans’ bounty poster, his gaze had been trained on the perpetrator’s mug, without a trace of the miniscule movements one does when skimming text.

What is he writing anyways? Musings and contemplations, aide-mémoires, or random thoughts? Is he documenting the manhunt? Has he written anything about you? Your eyes, and attention, remain glued to the man outside when you should have been looking behind you. Then you might've noticed the movement under the blankets.

Grass has started to grow up through cracks in the floor. The inside smells of mold and rotting wood. A few more decades and the place will have fallen into ruins as nature reclaims what man leaves behind. In a hundred years from now, there will be nothing here but forest.

You squat next to the blankets. The foul stench of urine, sweat, and hooch tells you someone’s been here, and recently too. You pick up a cigarette stump and run your thumb over the edge. Still dry. A small cloud of dust befogs your hand, leaving behind a thin layer of grey on the soft part of your thumb. This cigarette was smoked only a few hours ago. There’s still fluid inside the bottles. Your heartrate picks up, “Hey, Arth-,” –and nearly stops when a clammy hand grabs you by the throat.

Strong arms twist your body around. You find yourself staring at the doorway you had entered. A left arm is clutching your waist, and you feel something cold and hard pressing against your larynx, below the right-side mandible. An angry, breathy voice sneers into your ear.

“Don’t move!”

You must have screamed because within the blink of an eye, the bounty hunter is in the doorway. His hand freezes over the holster, finding its way to the air instead, along with the other, as he lowers his brows and lifts his gaze in a fiery scowl.

“Keep’em hands raised, pardner,” the man with the knife sneers. “Don’t try anythin’ funny or I’ll kill yer girl right before yer eyes.”

“She ain’t my girl.”

You only got half a glimpse of the murderer using you as a shield of bone, blood and flesh before he forced your face away from his. A heartbeat of a glimpse is, however, more than enough to confirm what you deep down already knew. The deep-set, beady eyes. The bolt-shaped scar on cheeks like those of rodents hoarding food in preparation for winter. It’s _him_.

Nevans tightens his grip. You yelp. The flash in Arthur’s eyes reveals his indifference to be a lie. A self-satisfied growl erupts in your ear. He saw. You feel something warm and soggy sliding its way up your neck. _Slooowly._ Arthur lowers his chin, glaring at his opponent under the brim of his hat.

He knows he saw.

“Either she’s yer girl, or ya wish she was yer girl,” he jeers with a panting hiss that reeks of alcohol. “For me’s the same either way. You won’t do anythin’ risk her getting hurt.”

You can feel his lips move against your skin below the ear, and you don’t know what is worst, _that_ or the knife to your throat. His breath cools the trail of spit running from your shoulder to your ear. A violent urge to scrub yourself floods your every bone.

“Let her go,” Arthur instructs in a calm tone. Deceivingly calm. He steps onto the fallen door.

“App, app, app, app, that far enough, pardner.”

The hostage taker tenses up. His grip on your waist tightens and you gasp at the increased pressure against your skin.

“You don’t want anythin’ from her,” Arthur persuades in a convincing voice, shaking his head. “Take me instead. Let’s settle this outside, you’n me.”

You reckon he wants the revolver by your right hip, though both his hands are heavily engaged at the moment. Anyways, Arthur’s gun belt is undeniably more tempting.

“I give the orders here, pardner.” For each syllable spoken, his patience fades, replaced by a rising anger. Arthur’s upper lip curls into a hateful sneer.

“Take yer hands off her,” he gusts out between clenched teeth, “or you’ll be _real_ sorry. _Pardner!_ ”

“Whatcha gonna do ‘bout it, gib _face_?” A lascivious chuckle wrecks in you an abominable disgust, equal in vehement abhorrence as when his tongue slid up your neck. The hand around your waist starts moving. Fingers eagerly probe their way inside your clothes. Freezing contempt rakes through you, and you want to scream, kick, and punch, but the blade to your throat stops you. Your body is taut, ready to fight.

“Yer smell so sweet, sugar. You just listen to uncle Clive'n everythin’ll be all right.”

The monster that had murdered your father in cold blood mockingly calling himself your uncle and giving you an epithet has your blood boiling with abhorrence and disgust.

“You do that again, killin’ you’ll be the most humane thing I do to ya.”

“You ain’t in a place to be makin’ threats, _friend_. Want yer girl alive, do as I say!”

He accentuates the verbal warning by an upward push of the blade. You notice a subtle shift in Arthur's eyes, from your right shoulder to the spot in question, with an expression changing from menace to horror to searing rage. Then you feel a warm streak slowly trickling down your neck.

A push to your back forces you in Arthur’s direction. Faltering steps together with a sniveling voice suggests the knife-holder has yet to sober up. When you are close enough to reach out and touch him, Nevans stops you.

“Take off his belt, sugar. And you, keep’em hands raised, aye? Unless you want yer girl here to lose her pretty little head.”

With a miniscule, but to you easily enough perceptible shift, Arthur turns his attention to you and his voice softens as he speaks your name.

“Is gonna be all right. You just do as he says.”

You lift your gaze to eyes of concern, and of guilt. He’d failed to spot the threat and sent you straight into the lion’s den. With trembling fingers, you latch onto the rim of his gun belt. Arthur’s eyes remain locked on your face as you inch your way to the buckle.

A flash of doing just _that_ , as part of a series of utmost private, late night fantasies floods your brain. Reveries from months ago, with far more pleasant circumstances and conclusions than what is to be expected here – as well as more recent night dreams either denied or written off as nightmares when awoken, though they were anything but – when your fingers had brushed against leather, closing in on the metallic center – the point of interest, with anticipation in your eyes rather than fear. Unbuckling his belt with fingers trembling out of yearn rather than from the deadly threat of a razor-sharp blade against your throat. With a heart pounding not out of petrification, but out of desire, passion and lust. Though highly inappropriate for the moment, they still flow into your mind like tidal waves, each more powerful than the previous.

“Gimme, gimme!”

You feel a pull and a nip, and the weight in your hand disappears.

“Fasten the belt ‘round my waist, darlin’.”

The whiskey-drenched breath and pong of sweat is nauseating, but not the main reason your stomach content is about to announce its return. You hear rustling and clunks and your nails strike metal. With fumbling fingers and after several failed tries, not at all helped by the slurred hissing in your ear, you manage to fasten the buckle.

“Got yer guns, got yer girl. Ain’t lookin’ too good there for ya, pardner.”

With hands pushing you in a counterclockwise direction, he turns you both around one hundred and eighty degrees, sneering at Arthur to mirror the movement, until Nevans has his back to the entrance and Arthur stands by the pile of rugs where the former had slept off his inebriation.

“Time to say goodbye, sugarcane.”

It all happens so fast. You feel a tug by your right hip, where your holster is, and a push between your shoulder blades, which sends you spinning around. Too fast. You lose control of your feet and feel yourself falling backwards as you stare into the barrel of your own gun.

As terrifying as that black hole of death is, your gaze holds firm. If you are going to die by the hands of your father’s killer, he damn sure is going to look you in the eyes as he claims your life. The now all too familiar, deafening noise of a gunshot pierces the air, and all other sounds are lost.

A pair of hands close around your shoulders. You keep falling. Another gunshot. You think.

Your father greeting you at the Pearl Gate flashes before your eye, your momma by his side with a baby on her arm. The homestead’s dog when you was little. The mirage of perfect, utopian afterlife reunited with the ones you love is swiftly lost to one of grim pragmatism, where your corpses are ripped apart by scavengers and other opportunists.

_Falling._

Just when the luckiest of fate seems to be an unmarked grave on Roanoke Ridge, Nevans, in his semi-drunk state stumbles. A hail of projectiles whoosh past you. Regaining his balance, he takes aim again, clear at your face. His countenance shifts from triumphant to surprise to dread as the final bullet announces its absence – thanks to Arthur’s instruct of leaving the firing pin resting on an empty chamber. The aggressor hurls the empty gun in panic and bolts. You lie writhing and winded on the dirty, mud-caked floor with a hot, searing pressure in your left arm, like your biceps is knotted around itself – and Arthur, looking down at you with open-mouthed dread. His lips are moving, but the echo of gunshots is still ringing in your ears.

“Go after him!”

You yell, but you don’t hear your words. Not even as vibrations reverberating through your skull. A glimmer of red in your peripheral vision has you shift your gaze. Arthur’s hand. Drenched in blood. _Your_ blood _._ You keep shouting, hoping he can hear you.

“ _After_ him!”


	8. You Want to Die for This?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Added tags: hurt/comfort, heavy angst.

Your auditory sense reverts to a mishmash of stomping feet, ireful hollers, panic-struck whinnies, and the most dreadful of all, gunfire. It sounds like someone’s gone absolutely feral outside. You are clinging to a broken shelf when a sudden, irrepressible convulsion interrupts your feeble attempt at rising to your feet. The pain in your arm comes creeping, gradually and pulsating, intensifying with each violent retch as your stomach rids itself of its content.

A pair of strong hands gently enwraps your shoulders, followed by scorching, numbingly intense pain flaring from your arm. You arch your back and you shriek louder than you’ve ever done before. You heave for air, you can’t stop trembling, and all you see are flashes of white against a shroud of pitch black. An assuaging voice, raspy yet calming, saves you from fading into that terrifying void of nothingness, thought you are still much too agitated to make out any words other than your name and that he is sorry, so very sorry, but he has to stop the bleeding.

The only thought of comfort in this wretched, excoriating hell is that of a hogtied Nevans pathetically writhing and squirming on the rear of Arthur’s horse.

Through wheezes, gasps, and sobs you ask, longing to hear the words confirming his capture and by effect, inescapable fate of retribution where he will be penalized for his evils, though the shrill sounds erupting from your throat are incomprehensible even to you.

You calm. Slowly but surely, you calm. Within the succour of Arthur’s embrace or, half embrace as he makes sure to keep a certain distance as he is rinsing your wound, your sobbing stills, and your trembling slows. You swipe tears, spit and snot off your pain-contorted face, which blends with blood, stomach fluid and half-digested bits of your sorry excuse for breakfast. You’re nauseous still and the repugnant smear of miscellaneous body fluids glazed over your hand, combined with the ghastly taste of bile still lingering on your tongue, prompts from your diaphragm contractions anew.

“Hey, hey. Yer gonna be all right,” he lulls. “Eeeasy. Is just a scratch.”

That _scratch_ feels like someone seared your arm with a red-hot branding iron and then struck the burn mark with a sledgehammer. Your throat is burning and your vision is oscillating between seeing and not seeing, sometimes clear, sometimes a hazy blur.

“Is he-? Is he caught? You catch him?”

The dabbing of cloth against wounded flesh stills. A look of repentance tells you all you need to know yet you refuse to believe it. You stare at him in open-mouthed disbelief. He is captured, he _has_ to be. Arthur shakes his head. You all but manage a distraught yelp.

“He had my guns, <y/n>. Sonofabitch scared my horse’n ran off with yours. I’m sorry, okay.”

“What, he- no-no-no- _no_!” Your eyes become flooded with fresh tears. Your horse. Stolen. Your travel bag _!_ Your clothes. Your father’s – the handkerchief. The angel and the broken wing piece. Gone. _Gone!_ “Then why are you still here _?!_ Go _after_ him!”

“And leave you here?”

“I’ll be fine,” you swear through clenched teeth, which does the exact opposite of convincing him.

“I ain’t leaving you to chase this maniac. I ain’t leaving you period. I’m taking you to Valentine.”

“The hell you are!”

“Y’need a doctor.”

“I NEED-”

“Y’wanna die for this, huh? Is that it?”

“What if I do?” you shriek. “I have _no_ one left!”

Now it is Arthur who stares at you in open-mouthed disbelief. You let out a dejected, forlorn yap.

“That ain’t true. What about yer uncle? Yer family in Saint Denis?”

You stare out a gap in the rear wall. The weather has shifted, and the fog is now lying low. Arthur resumes cleaning the abrasion on your arm. You curl up into a ball. How cold it is all of a sudden.

“Uncle Bry has his own family now, and his homestead to take care of. I’d just be in the way. And my family in Saint Denis, they don’t even want me there.”

“He’s yer uncle. He helped raised you. I guarantee he’s worried ‘bout you. Had it been me I woulda-”

A sudden shift of countenance, both yours and his, has him go quiet mid-sentence. You are too distraught to notice, much less ponder at his abrupt silence. Arthur, however, is far more observant, and quickly imputes your grief-distorted face to emotional pain elicited by his words, as opposed to physical pain from the incessant dabbing of alcohol-soaked cloth on excoriated flesh. He therefore opts for a change of focus to the latter of your aforementioned remaining relatives.

“Why wouldn’t they want you there? Yer family.”

“I’ve heard them fight because of me. Because I'm staying with them. I’m nothing but a burden to what little family I have left,” you blurb. “A burden to you.” The gentle pressure against your arm disappears. “I just keep making everything worse. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of always being in the way.”

He hands you an open vial, telling you to drink. You swallow its content a little too eagerly – your stomach can’t handle the influx of substance, you start gagging again and almost drop the tiny bottle. Arthur closes his hand over yours. “Small sips. That’s it. Everything’s gonna be all right, you hear. You got family out there waitin’ for you. You ain’t g-”

“You would’ve caught him easily if it wasn’t for me. You would’ve caught him days ago.”

“Is my fault he got away. I didn’t see him. I shoulda been more careful.” He removes his neckerchief and soaks it with the remaining content of the vial. “Yer the most tenacious woman I’ve met, <y/n> and that’s sayin’ s’mthin’,” he affirms with resign and poorly concealed amusement as he fastens the tonic-drenched rag around your arm. You respond with a sarcastic scoff.

“I mean it. Yer smart, determined, tough as nails, yer… you’re something else.”

He turns away at the last sentence.

You reach out your hand. “Arthur, I’m – I didn’t mean what I said earlier.”

“Don’t-”

His arm shoots up, keeping you at a distance that is as much an emotional one as it is physical. Tears brim your eyes anew, though this time not out of pain or fear.

“You know that, right? _Right?_ ”

“You only seek to me when yer afraid or lonely. And when yer not, you want nothing to do with me.”

The reproach is met with quietude. Discomposure of spirit leaves you powerless to process what he just said and the gutting truth to his words. You are tired, famished, shaken, and clarity of thought is as elusive as the capture of a firefly on a midsummer’s night, but you cannot deny its merit. Not by heart but by action and of what consequence is the former, when all Arthur knows is the latter?

_You think I’m some kind’a toy to be played with…?_

Arthur takes your silence as confirmation.

“Imma have a look around. See if he’s left anything behind.”

He is rising to his feet as he speaks, resulting in a voice embossed by exertion of muscle work.

“I’ll help!”

“Nah, you ain’t.”

“I need to do someth- I need to- I need to feel useful!”

You have barely moved when waves of nausea-inducing discomfort revive those cursed stomach-churns. You defiantly pull yourself up still. Anything is to be endured to another second splayed in your own foul-smelling, self-lamenting misery, like some pathetic imposition of flesh and blood.

With a look and a drawn-out sigh telltale of disapproval, Arthur helps you to your feet. Your legs, however, fail to hold your weight and you steady yourself with a palm to his torso. Arthur intuitively wraps his arms around you and, to your sweet surprise, hugs you close to his chest, careful not to touch where it hurts. There’s no bitterness or hurt in his eyes, just a concerned frown and a tinge of wistful remorse. Your fingers curl around the lining of his coat and you dip your forehead against his chest. Wary of your sudden approachability, he pushes you away.

“I think you should sit and rest for a bit, Ma’am.”

Oh! how deeply you regret your words by the river earlier, but alas – the apology you long to give would be interpreted as a lie, prompted by fright or weakness. Or worse, a taunt.

Repentance is immediately superseded by self-rebuke. _He_ _is the one that should be sorry, not you,_ you berate yourself, no longer believing it. The anger that was there has faded, and you wish, you wish he’d… No _,_ don’t do this to yourself.

Accepting the pain of realization, you let go of his coat. With the support of Arthur’s firm, yet gentle grip, you sit down safely.

“Thank – you.”

~*~

The only objects of interest to be found are two sheets of paper that look an awful lot like treasure maps. The one marked I, which likely came to Nevans’ ownership by the ever so efficient _hands-in-the-air_ method, depicts a trench that Arthur recognizes as some kind of dig site close to Butcher’s Creek. The one marked II is a drawing of Brandywine Drop, with an arrow pointing at the waterfall. These kinds of maps always come in sets of three he relates, meaning there should be one more. The most reasonable conjecture as to the mystery of the third map’s whereabouts is _in Nevans’ possession_. Though these finds reveal his objective, _his_ whereabouts still remain mostly a mystery. After a solid hind-kick by Arthur's horse, the aggressor had appropriated yours and fled west. Aside from that, there is no saying where he is now and you have to rely on Arthur's tracking skills, as well as the observations of vigilant and cooperative campers and trekkers.

Once you’ve recovered enough to travel by horseback you hand over your revolver and gun belt to the tracker, then you both follow the railroad westward on Arthur’s Warmblood. You’re still feebly and you make sure to hold on to his shoulders tightly as each trample of hooves takes you further from settlement and into the, for you, unknown and unexplored.

“See up there where it says Ambarino? That means we’re out of Murfree country’n about to enter the Grizzlies.”

You squint in the direction he is pointing and can ever so faintly make out the words on a railway structure uphill.

“Grizzlies? As in, grizzly bears?”

“I suppose. It’s bear territory, all right.”

Your sudden taciturnity is met with a rumbling, although strangely soothing chuckle. “Don’t you worry. I got my shotgun right here,” he mollifies, patting the side of the saddle.

Your eyes wander ridges and vales near and far, the woods making up this land with its teeming wildlife and flower-filled meadows, all while enjoying a silence that for once doesn’t feel pressing or awkward. Your body sways in rhythm with Arthur’s. Leaning back when descending, forward when ascending. Occasionally, you cross paths with a lone traveler or a company of two or three. For the most part, they return your civilities with a polite _Mister_ and _Ma’am_ , with a tip of the hat at the latter though sometimes you are met with silence or even insolent grumbles and side-glares brimming with mistrust, both of which never fails to prompt a string of sullen, disgruntled murmurs from your travel companion, followed by suppressed titters on your end.

You feel good you realize, smiling to yourself, enjoying the tranquility. The company. The rhythmic wax and wane of the horse’s trot. Despite the horrors less than two hours ago, you feel safe and calm. Something close to happy. Well, aside from the throbbing pulse in your arm that is.

"I've never been so high up north. It’s pretty.”

Arthur places a hand on yours, making your heart jolt only to remove the hands you’ve subconsciously wrapped around him, instead leading them to his belt and your smile fades.

Is it true? Do you seek his companionship merely as an antidote to grief or solitude? Your heart says no. Then again, your heart also once said _‘seduce him’_.

“Is too cold and rugged for me,” he responds. “I prefer the open land of the west. But at least, it’s far away from all that _civilization_.”

Suddenly too distracted by a flutter of spirit to pay much heed to your surroundings, your fingers glide over the gun belt in jittery, skittish motions, sometimes sliding, sometimes tapping. The pain in your arm is steadily increasing but you grit your teeth.

“Not a city person, eh?”

He lets out a snort of revulsion and aghast. “Anythin’ beats the city.”

You try to hold back a groan but fail. Arthur cranes his neck to look at you.

“You in pain?”

“A little,” you admit.

He pulls the bridles, slowing the mount from a bouncy trot to a gentler, yet steadfast walk. The change of pace is most welcome to your throbbing arm. To your spirit however, aching for righteousness and closure, it is anything but. You accept the small flask in his hand with gratitude and agree to only take small sips.

“Saint Denis can be a noisy, crowded place. But it has its charms too.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Innovation, knowledge, entertainment…,” you pause to gulp down another swallow. “All kinds of exciting stores… everything you could possibly need really. And within walking distance.”

“Nature provides most of that but without the noise, smog, and crowds,” he negates. “And what she ain’t providin’, I don’t much care for neither.”

You feel strangely disheartened by the pig-headed sentiment and lack of liberality. “Though, she doesn’t make it easy,” you affirm, as you return the bottle.

“That she don’t.”

His response is relayed in a good-humored manner and ends with a conceding chuckle. The exchange is interrupted by a hunter, which Arthur questions, resulting in the latter’s dismount. As you are still prone to queasiness you sit tight whilst Arthur searches the area the huntsman pointed out for clues.

“Well, upwards and onwards,” he huffs while hauling himself into the saddle.

“You once told me you had a dog. Copper, right? Tell me about him.”

He seems surprised, though not adverse to the particular topic, and after a brief pause to link your prompt to the appropriate set of memories he shares with you anecdotes of his canine friend of the witty-but-endearing kind. A real kleptomaniac he was, stealing not only bones and chickens but everything from books and shoes to watches and smoking pipes.

“And here I thought my pup was up to too much mischief,” you quip.

“Damn rascal of a dog he was. But – deep down, he was a good boy.”

His voice fades in solemnness, as voices often do at remembrance of grief and sorrow. You entrust him with the harrowing recollection of how your pup was killed by a raging O’Driscoll after inadvertently sniffing around too close to his hunting ground.

“It was uncle Bry who found him. And the O’Driscoll. It-it was – wasn’t good. No good at all.”

“Ah, shit. That’s real tough. I’m sorry.”

You draw a deep breath, fighting the urge to lean forward and hug him. “Let’s just say, I now know why the O’Driscoll farmstead in Big Valley is called _Hanging Dog_ Ranch. Though I never knew about _that_ part until after many years. Uncle Bry told me when he thought me old enough to know the truth. Pa was not happy about it.”

Judging by his grumbling response, he ain’t no fan of the O’Driscolls neither.

“What do you call a dog that is a magician?” you ask after a bit of silence. You bite your lip as you wait for his response.

“Huh? How can a dog be a magician? A real dog, I mean.”

You let out a snicker. “What would you call it?”

“I don’t know.”

“A labra-cadabra-dor.”

A heartbeat of embarrassing silence ensues then he chuckles at your puny joke, likely out of courtesy more than actual amusement, and tells you of a magician he once knew. A peculiar character he is, this Trelawny. Infuriating but charming, at least according to Arthur’s depiction, and a trickster in more ways than one. Chivalrous and good-mannered, he doesn’t strike you as the kind of fellar you had envisioned walking in the same social circles as rugged outlaws, even if he is a swindler.

The conversation reverts to sharing anecdotes of your respective animal companions – anecdotes of laughs and scolds, of playtimes, cuddles, and mischiefs, – and saying goodbye, eventually taking a natural turn to the most recent horse in your ownership.

“I didn’t even name her,” you say with remorse. “Didn’t want to get too attached, I suppose. I bought her out of necessity when I was at van Horn and never intended on keeping her. But if I ever get her back, I’ll give her a name, regardless if I keep her or not.”

Arthur listens to your account of penitence and the resulting vow in silence. At least you think he is listening to you.

“Last year, you had a thoroughbred, right?”

He replies with an affirming _hmpf_.

“He’s got such a beautiful coat, this one here” you observe, denoting Arthur’s mount. “I’ve never seen such a color on a Dutch Warmblood before. What’s his name?”

“Buell.” He gives the stallion a pat. “His previous owner named him after a general. I don’t know why. He hated the feller, I think. Anyways, he asked me to take care of him after he died. I mean, um, before he died, Hamish, that was his name, asked _me_ before he died, to take care of Buell, you know, after he, um...”

You hold back a snicker at the horseman’s verbal clumsiness. Amused affection spreads through your chest like hot toddy on a winter’s day. “I know what you mean,” you say with a smile.

“You know what? His cabin’s been empty ever since. I stay there sometimes when I’m passing through. Got some supplies stacked up and, it ain’t too far, an hour or so, at most. Could get that wound of yours properly cleaned and you get to sleep in a real bed, with roof over yer head.”

The lack of response on your end prompts assurances of two kinds. One, the place’s not off, or at least not _very_ off Nevans’ track and two, a solemn promise that _he_ will sleep in his tent outside.

“How’d you meet Mr. Hamish?”

“Hamish _Sinclair_. I ran into him these woods last year. Buell here was spooked by a snake, bucked poor Hamish’n ran off with his leg in the stirrup.”

“His _leg_?”

“ _Wooden_ leg. He lost half his own in the war. Apparently, it was this general Buell’s fault. Or, at least I think it was, I ain’t sure. Anyways, I helped him get back both and he invited me to go fishin’. I ended up catching this monster of a pike, the Tyrant. That’s what Hamish called him.”

“What happened to him? Hamish, I mean.”

“A boar got him. We’d been out huntin’ before. Even got us ambushed by a pack of wolves once. But we always made it out, alive and in one piece. Until this ole pig got the better of him. With his last dying breath, he asked me to take care of this brute here.”

After a brief pause to collect your thoughts you offer your condolences, upon which Arthur once again vouches for the veteran’s honor and decency. The rest of the ride transpires in silence, aside from the odd comment upon passing areas spurring your companion’s memories of previous adventures, short, inconsequential exchanges pertaining to the search for Nevans, and once to let you know your destination is near.

An hour or so later, a scenic prospect of a lake surrounded by rocky hills comes into view that is nothing short of breathtaking. Arthur points out the vacant homestead, though it is impossible to miss, and spurs Buell, who seems to know exactly where to go, into a trot.

Upon reaching the homestead, Arthur dismounts and tethers the bridle to a hitching post before offering you his hand, which you accept. You avoid looking at his face as your hand, to your initiative, stays in his for a breath longer than needed. How he is affected by your touch or, if at all, you do not see but there is no pause or gawkiness to observe in his demeanor, and he soon lets go of your hand.

You enter the cabin with a feeling of disillusionment you can neither explain nor justify. The first that meets your eye is a corner crammed with clothing, boots, boxes, and various knick-knacks. To you left is a kitchen corner, complete with a sink, a table decorated with unlit candles and ornaments, shelves packed with various supplies. Add to that curtain-draped windows, bottles strewn about here and there, and a faint, but unmistakable smell of cigarettes and home-cooked meals, and it looks like someone’s living here still. You suspect that _someone_ to be Arthur Morgan.

As you round the corner, you barely register the broom or the basin and the cracked mirror that belongs, and though you take note of a green carpet and the red-patterned curtain partitioning the bed from the rest of the inside area, the eye-catcher is a mantelpiece of massive stone and associated far-end wall or, more precisely, the various hunting trophies mounted on said structures.

“That’s The Tyrant,” Arthur chitters with ill-concealed, boyish enthusiasm as he points at the largest pike you’ve ever seen. “He spent years makin’ lures, trying’n failing, and here I come, hooked’n reeled him in on the first try, right in front of the old man’s nose. Felt kinda bad ‘bout it.”

You stare at the monsterfish magisterially on display above the mantelpiece. An epic struggle between man and pike plays in your mind.

“And here’s one of'em wolves that attacked us,” the monsterfish-catcher continues, pointing at a snarling canine head with bared teeth. You hug your chest. “Doesn’t sound like a safe place,” you comment dryly, comfort-rubbing your good arm. Not that Roanoke was much better in that regard.

“Ah, you’ll be all right. C’mere, let me have a look at that arm of yours.”

You slump down on the nearest chair, and Arthur begins to untie his bandana. The fabric has grown stuck to the exposed flesh and despite being ever so gentle, you winch at every tug and nip of textile. To distract you from the pain, Arthur continues his anecdotes of the cabin’s former owner.

“He saw more than his share of blood’n death in the war, but he never seemed to let that bring him down. Not even for a day,” he reminisces as he ties around your arm a clean (hopefully), concoction-soaked rag. “He lived out here, away from settlement, civilization – and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Nature kept him company. He… he was happy.”

There is solemnity in his voice and a lowering of head as he recalls his friend’s philosophies and disposition, undoubtedly highly esteemed by the narrator. The moment lasts but a few seconds, before his guise returns to that of grumpy aloofness.

“Go get some rest. I’ll go procure us a decent dinner.”

“I’d rather not,” you retort, standing up. “Please, I need to fe-”

“Useful, I know.”

You brace yourself for another verbal exchange pertaining to differences of heart, in this case that of engagement versus idleness on your behalf, but in lieu of the foreseen quibble Arthur gaze-pans the interior of the cabin to puffs and grunts apropos to his character when his mood is that peculiar mix of annoyance, waning patience, and reluctant compliance – all while possibilities of apt employment churns in his head. In this case, _apt_ meaning minimum physical strength and in close proximity to the cabin yet necessary, as you would not accept a task just for the sake of being given a task.

“All right, fine.” He hands you a basket from atop a shelf and guides you outside where he points to a grassy patch nearby. “We need to make more tonics for yer wound and, um, pou-pol, erm…”

He gestures to his left upper arm, whereabouts same spot as where the bullet had grazed your arm.

“Poultice?”

“Yeah, that’s it. There might be something over there for seasoning too, if we’re lucky.”

The task-giver retrieves his assembly of weaponries from Buell’s saddle. Both the Varmint and a bow find their way to his back. The shotgun stays in his hand. “Stay close and you’ll be fine. I’ll be nearby,” he assures while tapping the barrel in a way that’s meant to be reassuring.

“Okay, just… don’t shoot me,” you chirp.

“You sure yer up for this?"

Deep inhale. “I am.”

“All right, just…” He pulls out your revolver from its holster, removes one bullet – so that the firing pin is resting on an empty chamber, and hands you back your firearm. You accept with flutters of alternating exhilaration and apprehension.

"If you need to use it, don't hesitate." 

"I won't," you affirm.

He waits patiently as you fasten the gun belt and secure the revolver. You hold his eye with steadfast resolute as you pat the occupied holster for emphasis. He responds with an approving nod, evoking in you prideful tingles, which prompt a glow of complexion. Then you part ways.


	9. Confessions of the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been excited to share this chapter with you guys for weeks but for some reason my brain refused to let it go. And a busy work scedule did me no favours either when it came to writing. So, way, way overdue but here it finally is, chapter 9.

Nearly half an hour of meticulous foraging, the venture gave to you; five mud plumps, four startled ducks, three _pardon-my-French_ blowouts, two bug bites, one false-alarm-bush-rustle scare, _–_ and a wicker basket not even half full. You scout the ground, seeing but inedible wildflowers, a miscellany of insects, arachnids and other animalcules, including the green-headed, leeching monsterflies still hungry for your blood, hog-nosed snakes, toads, and the occasional duck, ensuing an inescapable hullabaloo of panicky _flap-flaps_ and _quack-quacks_ when alarmed by your presence.

It’s too early in the year still. You need to go higher up in the terrain, where the sun has graced the earth with enough warmth for a wider variety of flora to thrive.

Yet you carry on with grit and persistence. At first crestfallen to be but a mere _herb-picker_ , deflation was quickly replaced by appreciation. This is a safe and not at all bootless task in which you are skilled, devoid of strain to ensure physical recovery while still involving enough ample activity to prevent the bleak reappearance of somber musings.

There’s an unremitting murmur in your arm at the site of impact, but you’re not in direct pain. Not for the time being, at least. You put down the hamper with the sorry content to arch your back and roll your shoulders while gingerly massaging the soft tissue below the makeshift bandage. Grunts and groans turn to wails and whimpers as blood surges through aching muscles, tender and sore from strain, fatigue and injury. Then you count your resources.

A handful burdock roots, a scanty bunt of bulrush, and five Alaskan ginseng. Great for tonics! For seasoning, not so much. The mere utter of the word, along with its culinary connotation, had sparked in you a zing of expectancy flaring through your hunger-struck tummy. Now, a contrary but equally penetrating feeling of deflation is creeping up your abdomen, invading your chest.

Nature provides, but she doesn’t make it easy.

Arthur is yet to return and the thought of returning to the cabin to sit idle and wait, alone and useless, evokes in you a vehement aversion that dwarfs the need for rest. So, to save you from the frustration of idleness and the inescapable and inevitable dark thoughts hereat, you solemnly and surreptitiously resolve to find herbs for seasoning before Arthur returns.

You follow a trail uphill, glancing behind you every so often as perturbation stirs in your chest. Though it’s late afternoon, the sun is still an hour or so away from the horizon. It should be all right you reckon, as long as you stick close to the road.

Or, maybe not.

Affrighted by a fast-approaching trample of hooves, you spin around with a yelp.

“What the hell, woman!?”

Terror-white eyes of man and mount gape back at you concurrently as a panicky bray erupts the air. Some poor feller is nearly thrown off his rearing horse due to pulling the bridles in panic. Stupefied, you gawk with dumbfounded astonishment at the revolver in your white-knuckled hand, drawn by pure instinct.

“I’m terribly sorry Mister,” you say under your breath.

“Sorry, Ma’am. Didn’t mean’a scare ya.”

He tips his hat and gone he is. You release a pent-up breath and holster the cattleman. As ridiculous as you feel, you are quick to impute your agitation on all that dreadful business up in Roanoke.

The advancement of spring is far more evident here, as is apparent from the lushness of verdure on woodland and undergrowth, the multitude of blooming flowers, and a forest teeming with wildlife, high and low. Amphibians, birds, leporids, rodents, and ungulates – and a field of vibrant colors! A proper gold mine, if herbs were gold. No, this is better than gold. Therewith poppies, ox-eye daisies, willowherbs, and other wildflowers native to the land are wild mint, violet snowdrop, thyme, carrot, and ram’s head. You skip, bounce, and ramble about this treasure chest of nature’s pantry, plucking, pinching and reaping to your heart’s content. If Arthur’s hunting trip goes equally well, maybe you can make a stew tonight. A stew!

You head back light on foot, rejoicing at a hamper crammed with aromatic verdures. _Ah!_ the musty smell of soil intermingled with whiffs of freshly picked carrot, – a recurrent sensory reminder of an undertaking accomplished with the utmost success and a betoken of a delicious meal to come.

The prospect is nothing short of breathtaking. Gaily skips turn to minced, tippy-toe steps as you slow down to behold the panorama view of O’Creagh’s run – the largest endorheic lake in Ambarino, scenically framed by forest-grown ridges and barren mountain peaks.

Amidst conifers and rocky hilltops, a familiar silhouette catches your eye. The unmistakable, wide-brimmed hat and the broad shoulders leave no doubt as to who it is. Sitting atop a boulder a few steps off the road and to your right is Arthur, resting his foot on an adjacent, smaller rock, humming to himself a soothing tune. His attention shifting between the captivating scenery and the journal in his lap in combination with dexterously executed pencil strokes alternating between rapid and slow, rough and smooth suggest he is drawing rather than writing.

You can’t help but notice how relaxed he is, so… in his element.

Failing to resist the temptation of a furtive glance at the open page in his lap, you approach him quietly, so as to not disturb or alarm him. Closing in, you catch the sound of his low, rumbling voice.

_“…_ _for which I’ll be sorry of until the day I die_ _…”_

It then strikes you. _This_ is the true Arthur Morgan.

Not the gunslinger killing without hesitation or the dangerous outlaw holding innocent folks by the throat or the tool beating up impoverished homestead owners for what is often mere pocket change. Yes, he _has_ done all these things in his life –more than once, but now you see that brash and coarse savagery for what it is; a façade, developed out of necessity, either genuine or perceived. The man you see in front of you, pensive, ruminative, introspective, occasionally raising his head in solitary reflection as he patiently and diligently recreates on paper what is before his eyes or conjured in his mind, is Arthur Morgan completely and utterly at ease with himself and the world around him.

Or, you might just be fooling yourself again.

You sneak closer still to catch the words, and because that journal picks every curious bone in your figure. For all your stealth, you hear the sound of a twig snapping under your foot. Arthur slams the journal shut and scurries to his feet. He cranes his head in the direction of the hut, then back at you, perplexed as to why you’ve approached him from a direction opposite of where he’d sent you off to.

“Where’d you-?”

“I-I didn’t find much growing down there so I, um, searched around and… I found a meadow, with- here, take a look.” With a beam of pride and excite, you show him the hamper chockfull of goodies.

“Okay,” he nods. “That’s good. Just- don’t stray too far, ya hear.”

His countenance may speak of displeasure owing to censure and concern but the tone in his voice conveys astonishment, esteem and delight. Bursting with a curiosity you’re unable to suppress, you nudge an elbow at the item in his hand. Furthermore, a convenient change of topic will dodge a prospective reprimand.

“What you got there?”

“I-um,” he flips through the pages, although he doesn’t appear to be looking for a specific entry.

“Can I see?”

With some hesitance, he offers you the leather-bound hardback. After an exchange of items, you find in your hands the picturesque view of the small homestead meticulously and brilliantly rendered in graphite. “I write’n draw like a fool,” he deflates, misinterpreting your silence as unease. “Is just something I do to pass time’n- gather my thoughts’n – I don’t know. I like it. I guess.”

“Arthur, this is marvelous! The level of detail, the depth and the particulars, it’s-”

Your index is already trailing the edge of the paper, eager to see the previous pages. Perchance there is an entry pertaining to you. Or five. Arthur shrugs off your praise as _ain’t nothin’ special_ and his shoulders speak the language of discomfort as he promptly retrieves that which is rightfully his.

You compliment him again in the hopes it will entice a reprise, upon which he changes the subject by asking about your arm. You take the hint. You’re burning to know the content of the leather-bound binder finding its way back into his satchel. It’s impossible not to. Pursuing your object of interest is, however, for the moment futile. And soon momentarily forgotten when you see the white-tailed deer slung over Buell’s rear. Preparing the stew is a joint effort and not before long, a cauldron chockfull of carrots, mushrooms, and venison is simmering over the fireplace. The smell is heavenly and neither of you can resist a taste, whereupon Arthur apprises he’ll be heading outside to set up his tent while the stew is heating. In the same breath, he suggests you lie down for a rest.

“Um, I was thinking, maybe you could, you know, teach me something about survival?”

Your fingers are restless, nimble, and jittery, in one moment painstakingly intertwined, in the next high in the air, ticking off what you know with one hand and what you wish to learn with the other. “I know how to take care of a wound, I know my herbs, and uncle Bry taught me how to fish but there’s so much I still need to learn, like how to make a campfire, how to hunt, how to avoid b-”

He grumbly assents and you tail him outside on scampering feet, upon which you start gathering brushwood for kindling and Arthur collects chopped-up logs from the shed behind the cabin. Once the campfire is lit, you brew a tea from the leaves of goldenrods whilst Arthur sets up his tent. The infusion makes for an excellent wound wash, thereafter you apply poultice made of pine sap, ginseng, milkweed, and yarrow. To conclude the wound care, Arthur ties on a cloth beforehand disinfected with whiskey long since evaporated.

Concoctions are heated, poured, and capped to a naturally flowing conversation. Further questions pertaining to the cabin’s previous owner lead to Arthur telling you about people whose web of fate was, by chance or by destiny, momentarily intertwined with his. Many of them good honest men and women according to the narrator, and others – not so much. Common folks and magnates, crooks, fools, and oddballs. Kind, cruel, and cunning. He’s met them all. Most saw a luckier fate than the civil war veteran whose home you inhabit for the night, not at all too unusually thanks to the raconteur hovering over the crisply burning fire.

The most eccentric characters are also the most memorable. A flamboyant British animal wrangler, a scandalous French painter, a self-proclaimed paleontologist or, in Arthur’s words, _the dinosaur woman_ , and a peculiar trio of variety entertainers whose names you remember seeing on Vaudeville posters a few months back, and a certain famous wildlife photographer.

“Wait, you’ve telling me you know Albert Mason? _The_ Albert Mason?!”

Your baffled outcry has Arthur chuckling. “See for yourself.”

He hands you a photograph of a pair of wolves intending to maul and devour the very camera that immortalized them, or more likely, the unfortunate soul behind said camera. An exchange of glance prompts forth another photograph, this time of Arthur himself awkwardly posing with a full-on, three-months-since-last-shave mountain-man beard. You’re still astounded and more than a little bit awestruck that Arthur knows this renowned photographer and equally amazed that, as it turns out, he used to have the ~~peeved~~ unfortunate habit of getting himself near killed by the very motives he was hellbent on eternalizing, and you’re too distracted by the stories behind the photographs to contemplate whether the smile on your face is due to the anecdotes or the narrator.

With pleasant conversation – and company, the passing of time is indiscernible and what do you know? An assortment of stimulants are before you, making for a carefully selected miscellany of herb-based potions benefitting human or steed in vigor, perception, and fortune. Well, not so much the latter, unless your name is Tim Donahue or Benedict Allbright.

As it turns out, the teller of tales is also a surprisingly patient teacher who readily shares nifty tips and tricks for hunting, crafting, and survival in general. A bag of vanilla flower, snow drop, and mushroom will attract herbivores, while gritty fish or stingy meat with a handful of sweet and savory berries draw in carnivores. When distracted by the treat, you take your shot. To cover up your scent, milk the glands of skunk or muskrat and mix the foul-smelling juice with animal fat and apply to the skin. Not particularly appetizing but at least you won’t have to worry about the direction of the wind.

For better use of the arrows, attach a feather or two for increased damage and speed. When hunting small game like rodents or birds, replace the arrowhead with the casing of a shotgun shell for less damage to meat and pelt. For larger game, coat the arrowhead with the juice of oleander sage.

“Poison arrows, they work well on the yellow eyes,” he relays with a strain to his voice, squashing highly poisonous, lanceolate leaves against triangular-shaped steel. Your hands, engrossed by attaching a feather to an arrow shaft, freeze mid-air.

“Wolves,” he elaborates.

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Always have one of these on you when yer out huntin’. Learned that the hard way last year.” He shift position to direct your attention at an undisclosed location on the other side of the lake. Plant juice fountains from his gesturing hand. “I was trackin’ this monster of a bear nearly a thousand pounds’n a nasty-lookin’ scar down his face, over on the other side of the lake, with-"

You look in the direction he is pointing, waiting for him to continue. He does not. A drop of green-hued liquid dribble from the arrowhead’s tip.

"With Mr. Sinclair?"

"No, this was before I met him, it was with, _err_ … no one. Never caught the damn beast, either."

He leaves it at that and resumes the handicrafts. You keenly follow his instructions and mimic what he does with eager, albeit clumsy diligence and for each arrow you finish, he’s already made three or four. For what you may lack in skills, however, you more than make up for with determination. _More than_ being key here.

“Sorry,” you huff after snapping another shaft in half. Fastening the casing of the shotgun shell is quickly proving to be somewhat of a challenge.

“Here, lemme show ya.” You tacitly grant him permission with a consenting nod, at which he wraps his arms around you. “Eeeeasy does it,” he croons, guiding your hand with his. “There ya go. Don’t put too much pressure on the head. Gently push the tip-”

“That’s what she said,” you quip.

“Huh?”

“ _Ehh_ , never mind.”

All of a sudden, you become terribly concerned with attaching a feather to the newly crafted small game arrow. Turning away to hide your flushed cheeks and impish smile, you wonder if he caught the innuendo. Cue the tug of his headwear to lower the brim, the answer is yes.

“How did the clockmaker do at his new job?” you promptly ask.

“What you mean, c _lockmaker?_ ”

“Only time will tell.”

 _That_ look and accompanying grunt, concurrently relaying awkwardness and irritation induce from you a snicker. “Okay, here’s another one. What do you get if you cross a python with a hedgehog?”

“Huh? Um, maybe… I have no idea.”

“Barbed wire.”

A second of mystification ticks by, then the _ahh_ -sound of realization and ensuing, ill-concealed chuckle serves as ample encouragement to plague him with one more of the worst jokes in the history of humankind before you settle on a more feelgood kind.

“What is both small enough to fit in your hand and big enough to fill up an entire room?”

He stares intently at his half-open palm and his brows furrow in bemused concentration as he tries to visualize an answer to the riddle. A torrent of delightful affection flows through you and the hot-toddy-warmth announces its return.

“I don’t know – _err_ , a cordial heart?”

“A candle.” 

Amused and strangely charmed by the concurrent morbidity and wholesomeness of his conjecture, you bite your lip to suppress a titter. You hold his eye, or perchance is it he who holds yours here you unwittingly flash him the loveliest a smile. One that, in concert with the gaily luster to your eyes, brings forth memories of your time together in the bath house and he has to turn away.

He is quick to declare the stew to be ready and surely you must be famished. You consume your meals in silence as wolfing down two full plates in five minutes doesn’t leave much room for talking anyways. With a full belly comes heavy eyelids, and you are close to slumber here you sit on the porch outside Hamish’ hut gazing over the serene lake now free of monsterpikes with half-closed lids and a cup of coffee in hand, courtesy by the man at your side. A bright orange sliver of twilight in the west spans south to north. You can see why someone would want to settle down here.

Tonight, the quietness of the impending night feels different. You feel comfortable, safe, content – relaxed. In the company of the very man that-

The irony does not escape you.

“Thank you for taking me here,” you say, your voice hoarse from sleepiness. “This,” you nudge your head in the direction of the building behind you, “is so much better than a tent and a campfire.”

You had expected, or rather hoped, that the comment would spawn yet another pleasant exchange. Instead you’re met with a somber glance and the assessment that huffing a cigarette is to be preferred over conversation.

“You afraid of the dark?”

You tap your fingernails against the beaker. Even with your sleeves between your palms and the tin, the hot metal burns your skin. Then you straighten, place the half-empty cup on the wooden floor and hug your chest. You’re not sure if it’s the question itself that makes you feel so uncomfortable, or the answer. A décor consisting of beheaded, sneering predators, talks of a thousand-pound bear, a rapidly darkening sky and all of a sudden, this serene, tranquil place does not seem so nice anymore.

You shrug. “I ain’t no kid anymore.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

You crane your head in his direction. “And you? Are you never afraid, _Mr. Morgan_?”

He stares at nothing in particular before his gaze drifts back to you. “Last year. I was… sick. Pneumonia, doctor said. Was sure I was gonna die.”

After such an unpredicted, out of the blue unveil, he proceeds with the damned act of tacitly tapping his feet against the wooden planks to shed his boots of dried soil and flicking ash off the tip of his cigarette. You consider asking a follow-up question to encourage a tête-à-tête but end up opting for silence. You hear no tweets, hoots, quacks, caws, no chirrs, nor rustles of leaves from dints of wind or animals traversing nearby shrubs. It’s like every sound has disappeared from the face of the earth aside from the tap-tap-tap of Arthur’s boots against the porch floor.

Until he speaks again.

“The folks I was running with – some of us we didn't see eye to eye no more. And people died because of it. Lenny, Hosea… It took me a long time to wake up. To see all the nonsense and lies.”

He flicks the stump into the grass and without delay takes out another from his satchel. The transient hiss of a match being struck against a surface penetrates the quiet night and a jouncing orb of illumination like that of a firefly’s erratic but enthralling dance offers you a fleeting moment of comfort while the familiar smell of the bounty hunter’s favorite brand fills the air once again.

“You smoke?”

You shake your head. In between huffs and puffs and the occasional, compulsory pause of somber reflection one always does when relating past events that left behind irremediable emotional scars, he recounts years and years with the infamous van der Linde gang. With every syllable, a whirl of smoke escapes through pursed lips and fades into the darkening sky.

Shootouts, robberies, kidnappings, scams, – they were always up to some kind of shady business or the other. Upon commenting that, he admits your observations being on point. Recruited at the age of fifteen – a juvenile delinquent in urgent need of guidance, direction and belonging, an orphaned street kid was gradually malleated into a ruthless but docile enforcer, a beast of burden built to oblige, not question.

“What made you turn your life around?”

“I don’t know if I-”

“What made you ‘wake up’ and see the nonsense and lies?”

He flicks what’s left of the cigarette away and lights yet another. The twilight’s now long gone and with the only sources of light being the myriad of stars sprinkled across the pitch-black sky, a distant moon, and the dim light of a kerosene lamp between you and Arthur, even the dull glow of a lit cigarette effectively and conspicuously illuminates the smoker’s features.

“I ain’t got no problem swindling matriarchs as sour and bitter as a mug full of old piss or robbin’ business tycoons even more crooked than me. But the suffering we caused decent folks just tryin’ to get by, that never felt right.”

He pulls out a bottle from his jacket and uncaps the lid. “I ain't good. I know what’s waitin’ for me when I die. But we had good people running with us too. Decent folks that could live honest, decent lives. I was not to let them die ‘cause Dutch let Micah into his head.”

The last sentence is spoken with such resent it sends a shiver down your spine.

“I swore to save them. That almost killed me. Micah he-” A gluttonous swallow makes for a short pause in narration. “He almost had me up on that mountain. He almost had me… and Dutch, he- he-”

The liquor makes his voice gravelly and hoarse. More so than usual, that is. He treats himself to another languid, desirous swig. A drop spills on his chin, weaving its way through a shrubbery of three-day beard.

“After we lost Hosea, he changed. But I think, it _really_ started long before that and I was too dumb to see it. I don’t know. All I know is… I tried.” A third quaff makes for another short pause in narration. “I lay on that mountain, beaten, wounded, watching the sun rise thinking my time was up, and, I was okay with that. Marston got away with his family. Sadie, Tilly, Mary-Beth… they got away.”

A recollection of long-time-no-see faces clouds his gaze and for a brief moment, his jaw slackens and the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes fade ever so slightly.

“All my life I’ve been told what to do but now I gotta figure it out myself. With the new century there’s a whole new era upon us and I-I’m afraid. My time’s up. They don't want folk like me ‘round no more. I’m trying, I really am. But it- no matter what I- ain’t nothin’ I can do to make things right.”

You reckon he both need and would appreciate some guidance. There is this strange flutter low in your belly upon the realization that maybe he is not so incorrigible after all and the idea sneaks into your head that _you_ could be that guidance.

"Can I have a taste? Please, I need something to take the edge off."

He hesitantly hands you the flask with a drilling stare urging you to indulge its content in moderation. You pay no heed thereto, however, and waste no time putting the tip to your mouth to eagerly quaff down the substance. The liquor hitting your tongue is stronger than anything you’ve tasted before. Through a surge of coughs, Arthur’s concern goes from expressively tacit to explicitly verbal.

“What you mean _go easy_?” you wheeze. “I drink this kind’a stuff all the time.”

“You want to throw up again?”

You ignore him and, in yearn of the soothing warmth and other assuaging effects of the spirit, trigger another round of coughing, wheezing, and hawking. A hazy image of Arthur attempting to reclaim the bottle prompts you to lean away.

“I said, I ain’t no child,” you yawp.

“Then stop acting like one.”

“Excuse me _?!_ ”

“A _child!_ n’ a pigheaded one at that.”

“Is that what you thought the last time we shared a drink?” you riposte as the elixir of pot-valiancy does what it does best. A gradual but steady crumbling of decorum and demure.

Too much, way, waay too soon.

“Sorry, I _erm_ …” You roll the flask between your fingers. Your eyes are watery, your throat is burning and you wonder whether this sudden wave of heat spreading through your chest is due to the beverage or the conversation. “I ain’t no fool. Aside from a fool in love, maybe.”

Instead of reclaiming the bottle, he retrieves another, identical one from the inside of his coat, uncaps the lid and gulps down a mouthful.

“Ain’t we all.”

To numb the poignant flare in your chest you indulge another gluttonous swig. Though, as greed knows no bounds and liquid has no definite shape, you spill more than you swallow.

“You wanna talk about it?" you mumble into the back of your hand.

The flask in his hand finds its way to his mouth. You mirror the movement. There is a part of you that desperately want to talk about it and another that, with equal vehemence, do not. Nevertheless, it’s too painful a subject for you both to dwell upon without the alcohol-induced numbness of said pain.

“No! Maybe. I dunno. I- just- I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry I didn’t-”

“That’s not-”

“What’s that even s’pose to mean, huh? What you want from me?” A fleeting glance, a blush, a swill. “You wouldn't-you wouldn’t’ve offered- you wouldn’t’ve done what you did. Sober.”

“Back then, when it happened, did you want me to stop?”

“I should’ve.”

“That is not what I asked. When it happened, did you want it?”

His gaze drops to his hand. The nail of his thumb starts scraping the label.

“Yes.”

You snort and shake your head. “You know what,” swamped by poignant bitterness you pause to gulp another mouthful of firewater, “yer a funny one, Arfer,”–and another– “of all that’s passed between us,”–and another– “you keep apologizing for the one – the one moment that, when it happened, it felt good y'know. Real good. And I wanted more. I wanted _you_.”

There. It is said.

“But you never – you never apologize for that which caused me so much pain."

The corner of his mouth quirks into a bitter grin. A dull, mirthless laugh escapes his lips. When he responds, it’s without as much as a glance in your direction. “In case ya haven’t yet noticed Miss, I ain’t got much of either propriety nor decorum.”

You run your hand under your tickling nose and wipe the mucous fluid on your clothes. Neither do you, apparently. Not in your current state anyhow. You know you should stop drinking. Stop talking. Confessions of the heart – the most genuine there is, should not be incited by maudlin sentimentality but rather spoken when said heart is ready, without the aid of intoxication numbing both perception, sensation, and judgement. But the hooch has loosened your tongue, and with modesty low and courage high, laments gnawing your chest ever since _that_ day presumptuously bleed out like fresh blood oozing out of a ripped-off crust.

“This!” you hold your hand up high and shake the flask to make the liquid inside audibly slosh, “doesn’t make me do things I don’t wanna. It makes me bold enough to dare go with my heart.”

“Yeah, that was y-”

“You wanna apologize for something? Apologize for what you did to pa,” you rejoin, borderline sneering.

“I _said-!_ – I already said-”

After two self-interrupted attempts, he sinks into a morose taciturnity. _You_ sink into the embrace of your arms, quenching a sob. You already feel the effects of the inebriant, as is normal after a swallow or five but alas, it is far too convenient to blame the swaying ground on the tonics in your system making you more susceptible to alcohol-induced intoxication.

“I am but a fool in love,” you hum into your lap. “A fool who-” a hiccup interrupts you mid-sentence, “-fell in love with an outlaw. And I even hoped-” another hiccup causes you to nearly fall off the chair. “I hoped- never mind. Bytheway, yer the outlaw.”

You had expected him to defend himself. Insisting they were bad men. That it was either him or them. That it was either the life of an outlaw or the life as a beggar. Instead, he shows such an intent attentiveness for the half-empty bottle twirling between his thumb and index that you know he is deliberately avoiding both eye contact and conversation.

“Them folks you killed yesterday and the day before that, I know they were bad men,” you continue, projecting your own musings onto him. “Still, you aim a gun at someone’s head, pull the trigger and –BOOM– you’ve taken a life. Just like that. Like 'tis nothing. I don't understand, how-? Why-?”

Abhorrence wells up in you, and you have a nip before you continue the chide.

“You beat, you rob, you kill. No hesitation. No remorse. How many women you made widows, Arfur? How many boys’n girls fatherless? When did beatin’n killing become so easy for you tha’chu decided to make it your living?” 

Finally, he turns to look you in the eye. There’s a shimmer in his own that wasn’t there before and even through the haze of inebriation, you clearly see the contortions of abject and hurt painted on his face.

“Could you kill me too, Arfur? Just like _that_?”

Your confront is met with incredulity and a burning, disdainful indignance. No, worse. Heart-wrecking mortification. He opens his mouth but remains silent as possible responses race through his head, including that to up and leave. Then a sharpness of gaze tells of a pending answer.

“I'd die for you.”

An unadulterated candor in bloodshot, aquamarine blue and an unwavering forthrightness of tone instantly conciliates your heart, and anger gives way to remorse. He holds your eye in silence, his own speaking a thousand words of a wretched journey from acrimony to poignance and a watery, translucent fluid amass on the waterlines. _Surely, the alcohol is to blame_ you tell yourself, knowing well it’s not. Not before long, your own eyes start brimming with tears as well.

And then he is gone.

The last few drops find their way into your system. Your head bops and your chin touches your chest. You remember a bed – a _proper_ bed and an adjacent fire crisply burning and suddenly you’re struck with a need for rest. A whiff of cigarette smoke and a gruff voice saying your name penetrates what little remains of your sentience. Somehow, he sounds both nearby and far away.

“I live with remorse every day ‘cause don’t know how to be kind. I been bad all my life. But you made me feel good for a few seconds and I turned my life upside down for you. Twice. Now, what does that tell ya?”

_Twice?_

Surely you heard that wrong.

“After yer pa, I stopped beatin’ money out of decent folks just tryin’ to find a better life for their sons and daughters. I can’t change the past, <y/n>. I can’t undo what I did. For wha'tis worth, I _am_ sorry for what I did to yer pa. And for the pain I caused.”

Had it not been for your state, you would have surely been burning with shame but right now, this earnest confession barely prompts a turn of head. The empty bottle slips from your hand. You hear a clunk, ensued by the sound of empty, hollow glass rolling over wood.

“'Tis’bout time you went to bed. C’mere, let me take you inside.”

By now, your brain is practically bathing in alcohol, whereat you can but respond with unintelligible gibberish of the assenting kind. You rise – and slump back into, or rather onto the chair. You try again. Arthur catches you mid-fall, saving you from an inescapable and imminent, face-first tête-à-tête with the muddy porch. For a moment, you’re both frozen in time, saying nothing, holding onto one another, barely even daring to breathe.

“Why’re you out here?”

“Wha’you mean?”

“Why’re you out _here_ with _me_ when you could’ve been safe and warm with yer family?

“I need’a see’im in the eyes as he sees consequences for what’e did,” you mumble against his chest. “Youdda jus’shoot’im.”

Heavy inebriation leaves you indisposed to take note of the waver of hope in his voice and how your slurred words brusquely quenches that hope, which he did not even know he had.

“I-I’m s-”

The sentence is never finished. In fact, you will have no memory of ever starting it. Your head droops to the side and you pass out in Arthur’s arms.


	10. A Conundrum of a Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe, everyone. I hope you are all doing as okay as one can under the circumstanes and that this long overdue update can offer a small distraction from it all.

You wake up in Hamish’s old bed with a splitting headache and no recollection of how you got there. Good Lord, you feel sick! Straight from a dreamless sleep to a waking nightmare where a blacksmith has set up shop inside your skull. The topography of your chapped lips have more cracks and furrows than the ascend to Mount Shann, it feels like you’ve slept with your mouth full of cotton, and your bullet-struck arm is stiffer than the Duke of Wellington’s upper lip in the battle against L’Armée du Nord. You shuffle the blanket aside and rise, slowly, palm to forehead, groaning. The soles of your feet touch something fluffy and soft. You can’t remember taking off your shoes and the unexpected sensation of carpet to bare skin has you retracting your legs by instinct.

Your body heavily opposes the muscle work required to shift from lying to upright position. You sit at the edge of the bed resting your face in your hand, waiting for your stomach to settle. The world is still spinning, though in moderation compared to last night.

All curtains have been closed. A few, slanted sunrays find their way through a scatter of slits and tears in the curtain fabric provide a scarce amount illumination, barely enough to look around. A coffee pot stands inside the mantelpiece, by the embers. On the table next to the sink are bottles, aliments, a leather belt, and... some kind of metallic object, possibly a firearm.

“Arthur?”

No answer. Of course. He was to sleep outside, in his tent. You remember now. Still, why hasn’t he come inside to wake you or to check on you?

Your boots have been neatly placed by the side of the bed. Aside from your bare feet, you are fully dressed. It’s like all blood has been drained from your injured arm and replaced by cement. Thus, putting on your footwear takes you longer than it should and does your pounding head no favors. You hoist yourself up and totter across the floor for a better look at the items on the table. A canteen, which says slosh-slosh when you shake it, a chunk of bread, a small piece of cheese, a slice of salted venison, a mélange of remedies, your gun belt, your cattleman, and a handful of bullets.

The mere thought of food makes your stomach churn and you opt for the canteen. After forcing down two mouthfuls, you drag yourself back across the floor to the fireplace for coffee, whereupon you stagger your way to open the door, peek outside – and immediately retract. It feels as if your eyeballs have been pierced by a thousand needles, intensifying your headache to the point someone might as well have taken a knife and jabbed it through your skull. Without warning, the room starts swaying; left, right, up, down, upside-down, and into an unknown dimension where arbitrariness is law and time and space do not exist as you know it.

In the midst of a confusion competing in intensity only with your rampant heartbeat, you grab a hold of the first whatever you can reach, a chair you think, upon which you clutch a hold of the curtain as the chair starts tipping but fail to regain balance due to your left arm being useless, at which you fall onto the tabletop, dragging the tablecloth with you. You hear a thud of something hard and heavy striking wood, followed by what sounds like marbles rolling over the wooden floor.

You keel over the table, heaving for air in between wails and sobs. Oh, how you wish Arthur was here with you. Waves of nausea wash over you, waxing, waning, resurging with fiery strength just as it seems you’ll be granted a moment’s worth of peace to catch your breath.

 _Calm down_. You’re going to be fine.

Somehow you manage to slump down on the chair. You lie your head and torso flat down on the tabletop and rest your forehead on your arm. After curbing your gag reflex, you wipe your face and open the door again, this time covering your face with your arm.

“Arthur?”

No answer.

“Arthur!” you call out, instantly regretting it. The artisan that’s taken up lodging inside your head ain’t about to approve of your outburst. Nor is he too fond of sunlight.

The tent is gone. Arthur is nowhere to be seen and neither is Buell. There’s but a pile of ashes where you’d set up campfire together yesterday. You are still shielding your eyes from the burning light but from the shadows cast you surmise the sun has been up for an hour or so, two at most. Most likely, he got up at sunrise, assumed you’d be sleeping till midday and left to go hunting or to scout for supplies. In any case, there is no point in go looking for him. You don’t have a horse, for once. Nor do you know where you are, aside from a general notion of being Southwest of Roanoke. Besides, he’d never leave you alone for long, right? _Right?_

Notwithstanding the fact that there is enough food and tonics in the cabin to last you a month, he left your gun and quite a bit of ammo behind, and the sink provides water for washing and drinking.

What if- _Ouch!_

A transient, but sharp sting of pain steers your attention to a flaming spot on your arm and the flakes of ripped-off crust underneath your fingernails on the opposite hand. A mixture of blood, pus, and tissue fluid is seeping from a scraped-up bug bite you didn’t even know you had been scratching.

After a visit to the outhouse, you plunk down on the same chair as last night to play the _did-I-really-say-that-or-did-I-just-think-it?_ game. The near empty bottles at your feet clink into one another when you kick into them after you spill lukewarm coffee of your trousers, spilling drops onto the porch floor as a result. A whiff of alcohol penetrate your nose, making your stomach churn – again.

Thanks to the brewery of hellish mornings and blissful amnesia you don’t remember much, but with the bits and pieces you do recall comes a sinking heart. An evening of amicable conversation, jest, and overall good-humored ease had turned into a maudlin meltdown where you in blunt curtness had confronted him of all his flaws of character – with all the hurt and bitterness that ensued.

As to what had caused this caprice of mood you all but barely remember, but there is no denying the correlation with your pounding head, light sensitive eyes, and unsettled stomach.

You _know_ things were said. Words had been spoken of the nature that makes it more than a little bit likely that Arthur would want to distance himself from you, temporary or permanently. A different kind of discomfort rise within your tummy. You have been nothing but a nuisance and a burden to him since day one. What if taking you here, only to leave you behind and go chase Nevans alone had been his plan all along? Considering your fickly demeanor, both in action and in conversation, it’s a wonder he hasn’t left you days ago.

What was it you’d been drinking, anyways? It wasn’t whiskey, nor was it rum. You pick up the bottle closest to your feet and read the label.

Gin.

An impromptu gag has you lurching forward and the bottle falls to the floor. You will never have another drink of _that_ again in your life, that much is sure.

All bug bites scratched up and reduced to pus-exuding lesions you move on to pluck at the numerous smudges and streaks on your trousers and sleeves. The lukewarm coffee you spilled earlier has blended nicely with various stains of dirt, vomit, blood, tears, and snot. Thanks to Nevans running off with your horse and travel bag you have no change of clothes and what you are wearing now. It looks like you’ve owned these clothes for thirty years, not three days and they sure could, along with your slovenly self, use a good scrub right about now. Moreover, a bit of light exercise might help alleviate your headache.

You find a brush under the basin area next to the fireplace and a bar of soap inside an old pouncet-box. The soap is old and crumbly and the brush’s bristles look like the fur of a vagabond wildcat. However, beggars can’t be choosers and you beam like you’ve found a precious gem. Next, you open the chest adjacent to the bed. After a bit of rummaging, you find an old, forgotten haversack with a stale and musty smell telltale of years of negligence. The hide is lax and pliable, making it look and feel more like a rag than a shoulder bag. Despite its poor condition, there are no visible rips or tears to be seen. The seams and strap are worse for wear yet have sustained the trials of time. Sand-colored streaks among scaly flakes of hickory-brown, along with added-on patches and stitches denote a once beloved and often used satchel.

 _It’s like me_ , you muse, flipping the limp, stitched-up sack of leather around and then back again. Washed-out, wretched, and miserable but still standing strong and ready to be of use.

You fill the tattered but usable shoulder bag with what was left for you on the table and head outside but alas, the price for indulging the elixir of boldness and comfort is imprudence, and the cattleman with the attendant gun belt and ammunition, all of which slid off the tabletop during your out-of-the-blue, involuntary waltz with your immediate surroundings, are left behind.

You tardily saunter along the shoreline until you find a secluded spot shielded by vegetation and the rise and slope of the terrain. A wall of stone shelters you from both the wind and the nosey eyes of passersby. The rocky surface is warm and the circumjacent water is at a temperature considerably more comfortable than the rest of the lake. Peeking up from the rocky wall to your left, you can see the cabin in the distance. Though you are further away than assumed, you will have no problem spotting Arthur and Buell if – _should_ they return before you. Likewise, they won’t have any problem spotting you or hearing your calls. It should take Arthur little less than a few minutes to ride over here. In other words, you’ve found the perfect spot to wash both your clothes – and you.

You start undressing. Shoes and outer layers come off first, whereas undergarments are left on for now. Heels to heinie you scrub the garments one by one, starting with the parka. Each stain brings with it flashbacks to its origin and for each swipe of the brush you relive the events of the past four days.

Has it really been only four days?

On this day today, two weeks ago you were standing in your cousins’ garden, opening a telegram that would change your life. Forever. You returned to Saint Denis with Thomas and Millie on Easter Day and the following night, you left for van Horn. A sting of guilt pierces your heart as you see in your mind's eye Millie knocking on the door to your room to check on you when you didn’t show up for breakfast. A pounding anxiety in your chest reflects the imagined, rising worry in hers when you didn’t answer her calls, pushing the door ajar, finding your note…

Your mouth dries up again. You take a break to rest your arms, stretch your legs and wipe sweat of your forehead. And uncle Bry, is he worried at all? Does he even know you’re not in Saint Denis anymore? He always said he loved you like a daughter. Then he got his own and barely spoke to you.

Tears are threatening to burst, making your eyes burn. You put the parka aside to dry. The next item to be washed is the blouse. Due to the aftermath of alcohol and only one good arm, scrubbing takes a while, giving you ample time to reflect on these eventful last four days since you met Arthur on Easter Monday. The day after full moon. Somehow, that feels relevant. Important even, though you are not sure why. The next day, was the day of the shooting practice and a surprise rainfall which had sent you straight into Arthur’s arms. And your lips on his. On Wednesday, you held the hand of a woman whose name and story you will never know as you watched life drain from her eyes and felt the kicks of her unborn fade. And yesterday – the most eventful day yet.

Indeed, these four days have been more eventful than all of your days on this Earth, and that is saying something as less than a year ago you left your home and travelled across two states to start a new life in the city. Before then, you had barely seen anything other than Strawberry.

You let your hair down and run your hand through your tresses, wild and free, enjoying the visuals and auditory cues of a pending summer. Two bunny rabbits romping in the grass steal from you a mirthful titter. The first one since that day a fortnight ago. Sun-kissed water and a myriad of flowers in all the colors of the rainbow entertains the eye, while chirping birds and the hushed sounds of water sloshing against rock please the ear and soothe the soul. No wonder Vivaldi had picked such a jaunty tune for spring in his magnum opus The Four Seasons.

Blouse and trousers join the parka to dry in the sun. You look left and right and left again before swiftly removing your chemise and drawers. You drape the sheepskin vest over your shoulders for warmth and for modesty, though it keeps sliding down your arms due to vigorous scrubbing.

 _Relax, <y/n>._ There hasn’t been anyone tracking by here all day and if Arthur were to show up, would you really mind?

A tingle sprouts from your tummy of the saccharine kind, peppering your skin with goosebumps.

At last, every item is cleaned and left out to dry. Now it’s your turn. You use what’s left of the soap to give every bit of skin you can reach a good scrub. You frequently glance over your shoulder, imagining not without delight Arthur hiding in the shrub behind you, trailing your curves with those ocean-blue of his, titillated by your fingers gliding over your skin, soft and wet, a thought that is succeeded by heat rapidly rising to your cheeks. And someplace further south, if you are to be honest. Oh, how embarrassed he’d be if you were to catch him peeping on you.

And he sure could use a scrub too. Maybe you could offer him one – for old times’ sake.

Even though you are all alone, you hide your smile with your free-flowing hair as you imagine him brazenly stripping down, piece by piece. Your heartrate quickens and with it, the sweetest, most delightful tingle spreads through you, down to your very toes. You fill your lungs with air as you imagine him striding towards you in all his naked glory to sit down with his back to you.

All soap used up and your body fresh and clean, you drape the sheepskin vest over your shoulders anew and curl up against the rocky surface to your left, with your feet dipping in the water. Relishing the warming rays of the ascending sun, you succumb to the temptation of an amatory reverie.

_Ah! the sweet murmurs of pleasure as you rub and scrub him clean – all of him. The shimmers of sun in honey-colored locks. Wrapping your arms around his neck and inhaling the scent of freshly bathed skin, asking him if everything is okay, peppering his neck and shoulder with butterfly kisses as he leans into your touch and tells you that he's never been better. Then he turns, meeting your lips._

_And everything is just perf-_

Careful now.

Disillusionment flares through your chest, instantly scorching to death the adoration that was there only a moment ago. Every memory, every association you have of Arthur, be it sweet or poignant, demands your full attention, perception, and rumination.

_I live with remorse every day…_

You absentmindedly and aggressively pluck at a crust on your knee as you reflect on the last few day’s renewal of the acquaintance, or whatever is the right name for this strange relationship.

He _had_ said that, hadn’t he? Those were his words and not a figment of your imagination because of what you have longed to hear for so long, right?

_‘Cause I don’t know how to be kind…”_

A pensive mind sees but does not take notice of fingertips acquiring a scarlet hue. Bearing in mind the intimacy you once shared _acquaintance_ doesn’t seem apt but what else to call it?

_Yes, you do. You do know how to be kind, Arthur. You know the difference between right and wrong and good and evil all too well and it’s eating at your soul._

He had trusted you enough to bring you here, to a place you suspect he visits more frequently than relayed. And if not trust, then concern. Perchance both? In light of yesterday’s conversation, what you remember of it anyways, in light of everything really, is loving Arthur so bad?

Yes! Of course, it is. One heart-to-heart changes nothing. It just doesn’t.

The last crumble of crust plucked away you wrap your arms around your knees and hug your thighs close to your bosom, rocking back and forth in a jittery, staccato rhythm appropriate to the last few days unwitting yet irrepressible caprice of mood and resulting iteration stirring within you a thousand echoes of introspection, doubt, and anguish. A fluttering spirit, largely imputed to a fickly heart and continuous shift of judgement pertaining to this man whom you had adamantly sworn to be over and done with, is murder of the rational mind as far as discernment goes – and observation, as you fail to notice the shadow behind you, rapidly closing in.

Oh, what a conundrum he is, this man! The source of your best and you worst moments in life. The thought of allowing yourself to love the man who beat your father and the thought of letting him go to never see him again both wreck in you a host of fierce emotions equal in vehemence and poignant pain, and you don't know which is worst.

But what does it matter? After last night, he surely don’t want anyth-

That’s when you hear it. A low, rumbling woof succeeded by muffled snorts and huffs making your blood go cold. A frisson of trepidation results in a spike of adrenaline, which in turn gives rise to a fiercely pounding heart. Your skin starts to prickle.

You know.

Oh, you know only all too well what lurks behind you yet your brain refuses to acknowledge the dreadful truth. As the huffs and snorts grow louder and more frequent, a telltale sign of elevated aggression, you instinctively turn–and find yourself eye to eye with the largest bear you’ve ever seen.

A yelp gets stuck in your throat. A horrifying breath of deadly silence ensues as you and the creature eye each other up. You can’t move, you can’t produce a sound. You are as stiff and helpless as a one-legged tin soldier though not nearly as steadfast. All you can do at this moment is to keep a full-on panic at bay with one rapid inhale and succeeding exhale at a time. Then the latter starts stamping his front feet, snorting, and wheezing. Up until this point, you thought you’d felt fear before, in particular as of yesterday. You had not.

A piercing screech of pure terror leaves your wide-open mouth. You cower against the rocky wall, yelling at the beast to go away, a feeble and ridiculous thing to do as even if the animal could understand you, he would certainly not abide. On the contrary, your shrill voice only serves to aggravate him more.

The revolver! You forgot the revolver. Not that it matter. You wouldn’t’ve remembered how to use it anyways. All thought is gone, aside from that of survival.

Through flexed, fanned-out fingers you see white cusps attached to pink flesh underneath two flaring nostrils surrounded by a battered snout, marred by claws or teeth. A flashback to clear, light green plant juice fountaining off a hand, pointing over to-over to-

_…trackin’_ _this monster of a bear nearly a thousand pounds…, …on the other side of the lake…, …nasty-lookin’ scar down his face…, …never caught the damn beast…_

Most bears are cautious and reclusive, docile even. Not this one. Not the largest bear on this side of Dakota River and certainly not to someone who inadvertently invaded his favorite breakfast-spot.

“Shoo! Shoo! Get outta’ere!”

As the bear stands erect on his hind legs to better see the source of the disturbance, you understand why its binomial name is _Ursus arctos horribilis_. A beige leather jacket and a wide-brimmed, black hat dives off a golden white steed already on its way up the hill.

“GET AWAY FROM HER, YOU CURSED BEAST.”

Arthur! He’s heeded your screams.

What ensues is a dreadful salmagundi of sounds and visuals; rumbling roars of nearly nine feet tall utter dread and the ire hollers of man reverberate your very bones, while frantic neighs together with the now all too familiar, ear-splitting sound of gunfire pierce your eardrums.

A menacing roar of pain and fear erupts from the animal’s throat as bullets hit and yet, as a creature of habit, much like man, he is not willing to give up his favorite snack site so easily. You scramble away from the large mass of muscle and fur. Palms and feet scurry against rock as you watch in wide-eyed dread the bear lowering his shoulders in a stance poised for charge. Paws larger than a man’s face miss Arthur by a finger’s width. Until they land a direct hit.

Arthur is knocked to the ground and the gun flies out of his hand. The animal stomps the ground to a deafening roar more terrifying than any gunfire as a demonstration of strength and vigor. This gives Arthur enough time to draw his sidearm and fire in quick succession one-two-three-four-five-six shots. He draws the knife ready to slash but the bear has already begun to retreat, but not without one last, guttural roar as if to say, _this is not over yet_.

Arthur wastes no time hasting up to you and intuitively throws his arms around you. “He’s gone. 'Tis okay. Yer safe, <y-”

He stiffens mid-sentence. As a matter of fact, he tenses up in a way neither a Murfree Brood ambush, a shootout, a hostage situation, nor a thousand-pound bear could ever hope to bring about. You continue jabbering until you realize why. Lo and behold! As the unceasingly whirling wheels of fate would have it, a harrowing, surprise encounter with the king of Grizzlies East has thrown you into Arthur Morgan’s arms, sagged and limp, – and as nude as the day you were born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Predatory bear attacks are extremely rare. In this case, the bear was acting defensively both out of fear and because he was protecting a critical space. I am far from any expert in bear behaviour and as research I read up on sites like bearsmart(dot)com and bebearaware(dot)org. Also the videos Bear Warning Signs & Body Language and Bear Safety 1: Why Bears Attack on YouTube were useful resources.


	11. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I am uber slow but here it finally is - the chapter I've been excited to share for months on end now. Thank you everyone for your support and for your incredible comments, thank you to everyone giving kudos, leaving bookmarks and taking your time to read.
> 
> This chapter, including its title, is inspired by the song 'Closer' by Nine Inch Nails. Please note that the rating has gone up to explicit as this chapter contains explicit sexual content.
> 
> Paragraphs in italics about mid-chapter are written from Arthur's POV.
> 
> Enjoy!

As nude as the day you were born, aside from the makeshift bandage around your arm that is.

The aftermath of sheer, utter dread unveils. Your little heart is throbbing so hard you fear your ribs might burst. Rapid, shallow gasps of air all but barely pass by your lungs before exhaled again and a throat as hoarse and dry you might as well have tried to swallow a fistful of sand. You tremble and sob short of stop, prompting Arthur to instinctively hug you close whereupon he instantly retracts.

You don’t know if amongst your calls of distress, you had screamed out his name but nonetheless, here he is. He came for you. He stood his ground against a mammoth bear five times his body mass, for you. He protected you. He saved your life. He is – not quite sure what to do right now. His vision is trained onto a spot on the ground, akin to that of a scolded child. You clutch a hold of his clothes and scoot up close with a stifled, whimpering plea, whereupon you place a flat hand to his chest. To which, he draws a sharp intake of breath.

 _Stay close. Please._ _I need you._

He slowly turns to face you, albeit with a lowered gaze still before surrendering to the comfort he is aching to give. He begins to remove his jacket with one hand whilst embracing you with the other, all while finding new places to train his eye – anywhere but _there_. A glance up the hillside to make sure the bear is indeed gone somehow ends with a drop of gaze to your bare feet. Before he can even think of what he is doing he has already trailed up your calves where he takes note of your bruised, scraped up knees, ensuing a quick glance higher up before a propriety-induced aversion of gaze has him inspecting the rocky ground and your clothes scattered about, upon which he tenderly and meticulously cocoons his jacket around you. His heart is beating fiercely against your open palm as he scoops you up in his arms, as does yours but even as your fear gradually subsides, your elevated heartrate does not.

Arthur whistles and whistles but to no avail. Buell is nowhere to be seen nor heard. Semi-crude profanities and unflattering epithets apropos the aforementioned mount waft from under his breath.

With one arm under your knees and the other circled around your back he carries you the entire distance back to the hut, all the while doing what he can to lessen your distress by reiterating words of comfort intermixed with lulling interjections and your heart calms – only to rise in rhythm again. Your deeper-than-normal respiration and flushed cheeks are not so much a result of fear anymore as they are a crude, bodily response to Arthur’s soothing voice and his body heat penetrating the apparel swathed around you.

Your hand moves. From curled up against your chest, snaking its way to your escort’s shoulder, to which he intuitively hugs you closer and steals your breath. Feeling bolder, you move your hand again, this time to embrace the nape of his neck. The verbal assuage comes to an instant halt. In its place you notice a gradual, almost imperceptible yet steady rise of volume to his inhales, followed by drawn-out, contained exhales, alongside his strides growing progressively stiffer and more ungainly.

He kneels to put you down safely onto the ground. You do not let go and his breath hitches in his throat as your fingers glide against his jawbone to cup his face. A three-day stubble tickles your palm. You linger. His lashes sweep to his cheekbones and he moves almost indiscernibly closer. You trace the vermilion border of his bottom lip with your thumb – those _dangerous_ lips, which you know only all too well are so darn utterly, perfectly congruent with yours.

The raging storm within renders you powerless to action and reaction. You feel a raging appetency to close your mouth over his. You are aching to and yet, it feels unwise.

His jacket slides off your shoulders.

_Closer._

His hand comes up to your face, to which he captures and twirls a lock around his finger. You return the gesture by interviewing your fingers into his hair, ensuing an impromptu, light push at the back of his head. Your forehead falls to his, tipping off his hat. The apex of your nose glides against his as you weigh to and fro whether or not to steer him onto his back and straddle him. Give in to desire. Live in the moment.

Your tongue finds its way between your teeth.

Forehead to forehead. Nose to nose. Strained, warm breath fanning over your slightly parted lips, mirroring your own. Your fingers entwined in damp, honey-colored locks and a heart thumping in rhythm with the pulse between your legs that you are aching to spread.

He moves. Closer.

You tilt your head and lift your chin. Your upper lip glides against his bottom. You pucker your mouth and whisper his name.

Like a drench of cold water stirs you out of even the sweetest a dreams Arthur snaps to and without warning, he dumps you onto the ground.

“Wait here,” he gasps, though he is still squatting.

“What?”

His jaw is taut and the wings of his ears a burning red. As he is turned away from you, all you see are the crow’s feet radiating from the corner of his eye, however, there is no hiding the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Each lengthy, strained breath is a struggle for control, a struggle to conceal.

“Just – wait.” His voice is but a hoarse, strained whisper. “Get inside. Wait for me there.”

“Wait, where are you–are you going after the bear – hey – Arthur?!”

He ignores your call and with no further explanation he lumbers across the patch ahead to a nearby grove with long-legged strides and a rigid back. Not before long, he disappears out of your sight.

A sting of rejection mingles with a surge of relief and leaves you feeling more than a little bit confused vis-à-vis the recent events or, turn of events or should you say, _non_ -events but with zero mental strength or desire to jump down that particular rabbit hole of certain emotional turmoil you let out a puff of air, drape the jacket around your shoulders and stand upright on wavery feet. You notice this is not the same coat that had kept you warm Monday night. This jacket is made of pale brown leather with a darker collar equal in color to its buttons and is meant for a far more temperate climate. Ruptures and tears along seams and edges suggest it’s at least ten years old.

_A few, hasty strides into the grove, concealed by vegetation and uneven terrain, Arthur rips open the buttons on his trousers and wastes no time palming himself and commences pumping his cock, sans lubrication, sans that tantalizingly slow buildup, sans pleasure in mind._

The trampling of hooves and a series of snorts telltale of equine agitation has you turn your head to a trotting Buell, coming to a halt by the hitching post. Vehement puffs of air through widened nostrils, flicking of ears back and forth, and fidgety limbs denote he is not convinced the threat is gone.

_Using a tree for support, he strokes himself to stifled grunts, head lowered in concentration – lowered in shame as your naked body floods his mind._

“Easy Buell, it’s all right now.”

You speak in a hushed voice, in the mellowest and gentlest a tone your vocal chords can muster. Your hands are raised, your fingers flexed and your palms are flat and towards the horse. After each step you pause until he has accepted your rising closeness before you approach further.

“Hey, hey. Easy boy, eeeasy.”

You take your time pronouncing each word. Every syllable uttered roll smoothly and leisurely off your tongue, every gesture made and every change of posture has to be slow and deliberate.

“Shh. It’s okay now, Buell. The bear’s gone.”

You let your palm glide down the side of his neck to the withers where you give him a pat. The other you place flat on his face, gently caressing him between the eyes as you continue the assuage.

_Imagine! Your soft hand wrapped around his throbbing desire instead of his calloused own. No, better yet – you, naked underneath him, writhing, squirming, bursting with need as he thrusts into you again and again and – oh, what bliss! The sounds you’d make – like the sound of his name, which he never thought of as anything special, what sweet music it’d be to his ear when uttered as breathy moans from your puff, delicate lips._

_How he had ached to carry you inside and lay you gently down on the bed, wrap his arms around you and kiss your fears away. Making you feel safe, warm, loved, and desired in every way he knows how._

Once the restless trampling has ceased and the snorting stilled you feed the equine a sugar cube from one of the pockets of Arthur’s leather jacket. By calming the steed, you also calmed yourself. Free of the crippling urge to dart your head left and right or incessantly glancing over your shoulder, you draw a deep, leisurely breath as you let your gaze wander the picturesque, tranquil lake, its surface as calm and serene as your chest. Defying the harrowing thrice-in-four-days tête-à-tête with the prospect of an early grave, you stand erect with your chin high and shoulders low, rigid back and fingers lax. The fear has subsided, the gnarly demon challenged and slayed.

Calm. Serene. Such delightful words after the upheaval of these last few minutes. And days.

_He clenches the tree trunk, muffling the groans rumbling from deep within his chest and threatening to erupt from his throat. He knows he is being a fool, yet again. This can never be, why can’t he just accept- and what if you came after him and found him like this?_

You hitch the Warmblood and start rummaging the saddlebag for something to wear seeing that the only clothes to your name, including your sheepskin vest which had fallen into the water, are still lying out to dry at a spot where you saw eye to eye with a monstrous bear, nonetheless. You find and put on a well-worn shirt that reaches midways down your thighs. The fabric, once as blue as the sky above, is now discolored after countless hours of trotting through sand and dust. A bandana works as a headscarf. You stand in front of the window near the hitch post and glance at your reflection. 

"Not bad, huh?" you ask the horse as you tuck your tresses into place. "There ya go.” You spread your arms to the side and spin halfway around. “Now I look like a real woodland connoisseur."

A flat puff of air is your response. You raise a brow at the wordless, yet explicit critique. "Really now," – to which, Buell lowers his head and commences stamping his hoof at the ground. You feign offense by squinting your eyes and pursing your lips. "You're a real killjoy, you know."

You gaze in the direction Arthur had headed, wondering where he went off to and why. Wondering if he’s okay. Maybe you should go and look for him?

_The sweet pressure building at the tip of his arousal instantly fades. His hand slows, then halts. This is wrong. What he is doing here, dishonoring and disrespecting you like this, after all that he’s done, after all he’s put you through, is wrong._

_Fie on him! What mortifying shame. What a depraved, selfish, pathetic creature he is, leaving you alone and defenseless to run off and indulge in his own, carnal impulse. He has no right to even think! – no right to make you the featured star of such foul, impure reveries after all the pain he’s caused._

You rummage through the saddlebag some more. Wandering off without a weapon in your hand is one mistake you’re not about to repeat. Though ammunition is scarce, there is no lack of arms. You find the rifle you had used to shoot at tin cans as well as another, juxtaposed with the one in your hand, larger rifle, a spare revolver and a double-barrel shotgun. Aside from the unlucky crow three days ago, you have never killed a living thing before in your life. When fishing with your uncle, you would hook and reel only and he would give the creature its final blow and Arthur is yet to make good of his promise-slash-threat to have you procure dinner. You are still not sure whether he was being serious or if he was, in his most unceremoniously and unmannerly way, merely nettling you as part of his stratagem to subdue you into doing as told and start shooting. In which case, you reluctantly have to admit it worked.

In any case, as much as you hate the thought of stopping a bunny rabbit’s heart, if you are to hold your own out here in the wild, you need to learn how to hunt for food and protect yourself against dangers, animal and human alike. Henceforth, you will make a profound effort to learn to do exactly that, starting now.

You take out the Varmint and place the stock to your shoulder, like Arthur had taught you and aim towards the lake – the safest direction to point the muzzle by your judgement, then you operate the bolt handle and check the bolt and chamber. Weapon’s loaded. To practice eject and reload, you take out and load the same cartridge. Okay. That worked. Weapon’s ready to fire.

_As much as his head tells him to stop, the need for release is a crude and animalistic one. Neither his body nor his head will function properly without the relief from discharge for which his body screams. Forcing away the shameful thoughts, his mind recalls that day in the bath house and the throbbing sweetness in his palm instantly returns at the arousing, titillating feel of astonishment and incredulity that such a winsome, generous, and kind creature as yourself would even think of touching him without abhorrence and disgust. Not only that, you had relished it. Relished him._

_He speeds up._

You raise the Varmint and peer thought the sight. Your uninjured arm keeps the firearm steady while the butt rests against the opposite shoulder. Your aim, no pun intended, is not to kill but to practice scope-tracking. You start by trailing the lake’s shoreline. Easy enough. Then you aim up at a flock of birds and pick one to trail.

 _Untied locks gracefully floating down naked shoulders, framing the most beautiful face he has ever seen._ _A gaze of warm lust. Your warm, panting breath against his lips. Your coos and murmurs of gusto and delight. Rousing him on with flatter and praise in a succulent voice sweeter than mulled milk with cinnamon and honey. Finding pleasure in pleasing him, asking for nothing in return._

_He is so close. Oh, heavens! is he close. Just a few more strokes-_

After several failed tries, you lower the Varmint to rest your arms. Next attempt flies by, again no pun intended, with much higher success and you trail a pekin duck for a good half a minute.

_He thrusts hard into his hand. Clinging to the trunk, he spills onto the ground in one-two-three squirts. Raunchy images of your face, flushed and beautifully contorted as he pleasures you in ways not even Charles_ _Châtenay_ _would have the audacity to paint occupy his every thought, his every, breathy pant and puff, every pounding beat of his heart, and he loses control of his voice._

A growl rumbles from the trees ahead where Arthur had headed. You instantly and intuitively point the muzzle at the direction of the sound. Your heartrate picks up. You fear the beast’s return, however this time, you are ready.

_With no feeling of satisfaction or relief other than that of relieving himself of a bulging problem in his pants, he tucks himself in and returns to you. How he could even think of looking you in the eye after such a depraved, unseemly act, egged on by a wealth of highly indecent, obscene and salacious thoughts he cannot even begin to fathom. There is no excuse for what he has just done. He deserves your every taunt, your every scorn, your every scowl of disdain. He deserves your hate._

The sight of Arthur returning has you letting out a breath of relief. His steps are less hurried, his posture far more relaxed and his gaze fixed onto the ground, raised only to verify your position. He freezes at the sight of you – and the Lancaster aimed at him. By instinct, he raises his arms.

You point the muzzle towards the ground. Following his gaze, you throw a glance over your – _his_ attire, on you, as if you’ve been caught doing mischief. “My clothes are still over at where the bear attacked us. I didn’t have anything to wear so I found this in the saddle when Buell ret-”

“WATCH IT!”

Jittery, unceasingly pitter-patter fingers lose their grip on the forestock. You succeed in catching the falling Varmint before impact, thereby voiding another episode of possibly accidental discharge. The sudden, forward lurch has Arthur’s shirt dancing alluringly around your thighs and the owner of aforesaid shirt releases a pent-up breath through his nose. Slowly.

His arms fall to his side as he reverts to his signature guise – broodily angry-aloof. “Bear was comin’ down to eat’n you startled it.”

“I know.”

He walks past you with lengthy yet unhurried strides, picks up his hat in one swift motion, and puts it on his head, furtively adjusting the brim until low enough to prevent you from seeing his eyes without tilting your head yet not so low as to affect his line of vision.

“I thought I told you to wait inside. Why’s that so hard for you, huh?”

“I was practicing,” you interject. “–tracking birds. In the sky. It was you who said I ne-wait, you thought I was going shoot you or something?”

“If you had, I wouldn’t hold it against ya.”

Not knowing how to respond though nonetheless feeling your cheeks flush, you hand the tattered, leather jacket to its owner.

“Here. So you don’t get cold.”

Arthur Morgan is feeling many things right now but cold is not one of them. His line of sight drops to where textile meets skin, visibly swallowing at the sight of his favorite shirt encircling your legs, barely covering your... hips. The thought sneaks into his mind, that underneath the fabric are no bloomers, no drawers, just-

He swallows again. Thickly.

His eyes flicker past you as he beelines over to Buell with hurried strides and a hunched back. After the mandatory pats and sweet-talk, he pulls out his trusted shotgun with exaggerated movements, quick and jerky, like a wheel with rusty cogs. The tattered leather falls to the ground.

“I heard something. A growl, from over there.” His beforehand flushed cheeks are now a scorching red. It seems your impromptu aim practice has done nothing to impress. “I thought it might’ve been the bear coming back,” you explain with hurry, “which is odd, ‘cause it ran-”

“And you was gonna kill it with _that_?”

You straighten and grip the Varmint firmly with both hands. “Kill, scare, whatever it would take,” you declare with newfound confidence. He responds with a mocking snort.

“Well, good luck to ya.”

“What you mean?”

The man making such an effort to avoid your eyes now sends you a _you-did-not-just-ask-that_ glare. “Maybe. With a suicidal bear it might. Or a whole lotta bullets’n dumb luck.”

Your brows draw closer together.

“It's a small game rifle,” he scoffs in a poorly concealed demeaning tone. “For that thousand-pound bear that tried’a maul us over there–” A dramatic pause ensues as he separates the stock from the barrel to check the magazine or, whatever it is one is checking when glaring down that hollow steel “–bullets from that rifle–” the firearm loudly snaps back to its original form “–‘s gonna feel like a four-year-old throwing pebbles.”

Fine. You get it. A big, bad, mean gun for a big, bad, _cocksure_ hunter up against a big, bad’n mean-looking beast. Disillusionment stings your chest with such force you find yourself blinking your eyes and biting the inside of your cheek, leaving rejoinders impossible. You don’t understand why he is being so contemptuous all of a sudden, borderline derisive even.

You had been proud of the efficacy in which you had subdued your fear. Proud for taking the initiative to practice aim and prey-tracking, and that you had done so with determination and ease. Now all that is gone, replaced by burgeoning indignance-induced resent flooding your every vein.

“Wait for me inside,” Arthur commands. “We be leaving as soon as I get back. We’re already late.”

“But I-”

“Will you for once just listen _?!”_

Perturbance and hurt contorting your face entice one of remorse in his. When he speaks again his tone is lower, more restrained, though not without harshness or reprimand.

 _“_ What was you thinkin’ woman? I can't protect you when you run off like that without me knowin’.”

The derogatory _woman_ stings more than you care to admit. You respond with a gimlet scowl apropos to the sentiments elicited, throughout which you clench the Varmint forestock till your knuckles are as white as the peaks west of Dakota River. “I didn’t know I was under house arrest,” you say frostily. After a discourteous reminder that ‘ _woman’_ is, in fact, not your name you continue the chide.

“You’re the one who left without a word. Then you left me again, just now. No explanation. No word other than telling me to wait inside, like a child.”

“I DIDN’T LEAVE-” he interjects with a sneer, – and halts mid-sentence for a windy inhale. A burning red spreads across his face from the base of his neck. A fiery blend of trepidation and exult makes your chest swell. Your grip on the rifle remains as taut as before, if not more.

The rejoinder has him simmering. You can tell.

When he speaks again, his voice is calm. Deceivingly calm, like the other times you had the audacity to verbally challenge him. Thick. Laced with seething emotions, revealed by the surly scowl barely visible from under the brim of his hat.

“First thing I did wakin’ up this morning was to go and check on you but you was so far gone a train could’a raced by without wakin’ ya, so I thought it best to let you sleep off the gin, while I-”

“You could have written a note,” you defy. “I-I thought-”

He does not give you the opportunity to finish that thought.

“I returned here after relocating the sonovabitch’s tracks, thinkin’ you was still in bed. Thinkin’ you was safe. Then I see the table’s moved, yer gun on the floor, ammo sprayed out everywhere... I thought – I was sure something real bad had happened, then I heard you scream’n I-I got scared.”

The initial rejoice from the efficacious riposte dies. “I get it,” you cry out with a tincture of quiver you can’t conceal. “I fouled up. No need for theatrics.”

Arthur reaches out his hand and with the tip of his fingers he steers the barrel away from you, making you realize how dangerously close the muzzle was to your head. Once the deadly hollow is steered clear of your face, he seeks eye contact with a skewed grin.

“Theatrics? Me _?!”_

Vindictiveness and scorned pride has given way for realization. Unadulterated, mortifying realization. The kind that powers forth eye-opening introspection. The manhunter’s reproach, initially dismissed as one-sided, overbearing, and unjust, is entirely merited. Imprudence and a grave lack of discernment on your end, owing to a limited experience of the world and its many pitfalls and perils outside the realms of your kin’s homes, had resulted in two disastrous consequences leaving not only yours truly in danger but Arthur as well.

Your first mistake was to stupidly venture off from the safety of Hamish’s cottage with no means of defense, as you had... _Have_ not yet acquired the intuitive understanding of always having a firearm at your disposal. Secondly, you had failed to be aware of your surroundings.

You lower your head in shame. He has every right to be cross at you.

“I’m sorry,” you hear Arthur say. “You’re right, I shouldn’t’ve left you like that. I’m the idiot.”

His voice, now meek and abashed, subdues you to a desirous, poignant, deeply burning yearn you are unable to define, let alone vocalize. A nameless yearn, which crave bitterly and intolerably intensifies proportionally to the time spent acknowledging and dwelling on its presence.

But deep down you know. My word, do you know. You know why. You know what. You know whom.

You know only all too well why you long for the warmth of an embrace and the smell of musk, moss, and rain. Why you so desirously yearn the softness of bed linens against your back, together with the weight of-of – on top-

You also know it can never be, that you can never have- you stretch out your arm with the rifle towards the big, bad, mean, now all of a sudden humble, hunter.

“Keep it.” He nods towards the pile of leather on the ground. “And my jacket. So you don’t get cold.”

He repeats his command to wait indoors till he returns with your clothes, mounts the saddle, and off he goes. Inside, you sink down on the kitchen chair, deflated. Relief from being free of scold and rebukes rear-ends with a fiery yearn for his hasty return. You prop your arm on the tabletop, rest your head in your palm and ride through a malaise best described as oddly disillusioned.

You feel repined, ashamed, dismissed, forlorn... and more than a little bit confused.


End file.
